


What Country, Friends, Is This?

by kattahj



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Cultural Differences, Drama, F/M, Gen, Muslim Character, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/pseuds/kattahj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flying man has lost his home, his family, everything he knew about himself... and his clothes. What is left for him now? AU after season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Country, Friends, Is This?

**Author's Note:**

> **This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after. **

**Chapter 1**

He woke up on a cold dock, wet and shivering, with the mother of all headaches. Gathering his limbs together, he made a move to stand up and winced in pain. Had he been drinking? He didn't remember drinking, but then, he had only the vaguest recollection of how he'd ended up there at all. He'd been going fast, that much he remembered, faster than ever before, trying to stop but unable to hold back against the power of his own speed and the... the... what had sent him off again? Some force had pushed him ahead against his will, until there was nothing under him but water and he didn't even know which way was back anymore.

And now there was this place. What _was_ this place? He looked around, seeing square, low buildings, windows shining bright against the darkness. A figure moved between the shadows �" a man, clearly headed somewhere, walking with purpose. Desperate to connect with someone who obviously had more control than he did, anything to stop feeling so lost, he started walking, then running, and shouted out, "Hey! Wait up!"

The man proved to be very young, almost a boy, and seemed taken aback at first, but then looked him over, eyes widening. "Jävlar, mannen, mår du bra? Vad har hänt med dina kläder?"

He stopped, confused at the stranger's incomprehensible words. He hadn't forgotten how to speak, had he? His words had made sense to himself, but had they been only nonsense to the other man, much like this was to him?

"I'm sorry," he said, "I don't understand..."

To his relief, the man nodded and started speaking slowly and with an accent in words that did make sense. "Okay. You speak English, yeah? What happened to your clothes?"

English. Of course, that was it. A different language, that was all. He could have laughed with relief, if he hadn't followed the man's gaze at his clothes. They were charred and tattered, as if something had burned them and torn them to pieces.

"I don't know," he said, staring at the rags.

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head mutely. If his clothes had been damaged so badly while he was still wearing them, he should have been damaged too. It only stood to reason... but nothing about this seemed very reasonable.

The man touched his shoulder and muttered some more in the foreign language. "You are cold."

"Yes."

"And wet. Were you on a boat?"

He frowned. A boat? That didn't seem to fit. "I don't think so."

"Okay. What's your name?"

His name. God, he should know his name, but he _didn't_, it just wasn't there, not even at the tip of his tongue. It was gone.

"You know, your name?" the man continued. "What people call you? I'm Qais, you are..."

"I don't..."

"You don't know."

He shook his head, terrified. What had happened to him? Why didn't he know his own name?

"Okay," the man �" Qais �" said, patting his shoulder in a soothing gesture. "Here's what we do. I take you home with me, get you warm, and we can talk more about this later. Yes?"

"Yes," he said, grateful to have some kind of help, even if it was from someone barely old enough to drink. "Thank you."

Qais nodded and pulled off his own jacket, draping it across his shoulder and rubbing his arms lightly. "Better?"

"A bit."

"Jalla, come on," Qais said with a final pat on the arm. "There should be a bus coming soon."

They walked down a few streets to a large brick building with bus stops on one side. There were rows of monitors, but nearly all were blank and dark. When the bus came, the driver glared at them and barked something in the foreign language, but Qais answered him calmly, and in the end they were allowed in, sitting down near the back. He leaned against the seat, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort. The bus started moving and places went by, though there were very few people �" a shabby-looking girl that sat nodding off in a corner, two women in headscarves speaking together in low voices, a man in overalls. The speaker voice called out incomprehensible names, and at one of those names, Qais pushed the stop button.

"You ready?"

He nodded, watching Qais' face as they stepped outside. It reminded him of something, with those patient brown eyes, the gentle smile. He had known someone, somewhere, like this, in expression if not in features.

They walked past some apartment blocks and then into one, climbing a gray staircase.

"Here we are," Qais said, turning the key in a door that said 'Mansour'. Qais Mansour, then, two whole names for this stranger and none for himself.

Once inside, Qais yelled loudly and people started showing up in the hall �" first an attractive young woman in jeans, carrying a pair of socks that she put on while she watched the two of them and said things that appeared to be questions, then a middle-aged couple in bathrobes, and finally a teenaged girl, half asleep, who padded out there in only a T-shirt. This last appearance caused the others to tell her something in sharp voices, until she went back into her room and returned with some sweatpants on.

The middle-aged woman shook her head at his clothes, said something at the man by her side and waved him away, and then shooed the new arrivals into the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, overwhelmed.

"It's okay," Qais said. "I have explained things to them. Well, a little bit, anyway. Dad is fetching you some new clothes. Do you want a bath? Mom said you should have one �" or a shower, if you'd rather."

"A bath would be nice," he said. "Thanks."

He stripped out of the rags he'd been wearing and sat down in the bathtub, letting the blessed warmth of hot water run over him.

A knock on the door made him open eyes that had started to drift shut. Qais' father came in, holding some clothes and a large towel. He only now noticed that the man walked with a heavy limp.

Qais gestured towards his father. "My dad, Adil."

The two of them spoke for a while, and while he sometimes thought he recognized the sound of a word, he could have been mistaken. Finally, Adil asked, "You feel better?"

"Much," he said. "I can't thank you enough, or your son. I don't know what I'd have done if he hadn't been there."

"Are you hurt? We can call hospital if you want."

"No, I'm not hurt." He hesitated. "But I don't... I don't seem to remember anything. At all."

Adil nodded, his face showing no surprise. It must have been one of the things Qais had told him. "You are not Swedish."

Sweden. Was that where he was? That surprised him; he had a feeling Sweden should be more... well, blonder for one thing. Still, this was one question he could definitely answer. "No. I'm not."

"Know you where you come from?"

He shook his head.

"Are you here..." Adil said something to Qais, who filled in, "Legally?"

Legally? He rubbed his forehead. Even if he _was_ there legally, how was he supposed to prove it when he had no idea who he was? Anyway, what of the one memory he _did_ have, of seeing land after nothing but endless water? He didn't recall crossing any border.

"I think I just arrived."

Qais picked up his tattered clothes from the floor and started searching through them. After a while, he shook his head. "No papers."

Of course not, he thought bitterly. That would have been too simple, wouldn't it?

The two men spoke together for a while, and then Qais smiled at him. "Don't worry about anything. We'll help you work this out, okay? Do you want some sleep when you're done in here? We can put some new sheets on Aisha's bed, she's going to work now anyway."

He was practically falling asleep already, and so he only nodded in relief. Lost and confused as he may be, at least he didn't have to be alone.

* * *

  
**Interlude 1: Peter and Angela**

In his dream, all was cold, and dark, and utterly empty. The only thing that moved was him, shooting through the void like a bullet fired from a rifle. He felt parts of himself being ripped away, until there was nothing left, and screamed with lungs that were no longer there, trying to make a noise, anything that would prove that he still existed.

Peter woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding, and he had to lie still for a few minutes, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Going back to sleep was out of the question; instead he turned on the light and left the bed, going into the kitchen for something to eat. The thought of food made him queasy, but it was a ritual �" wake up at night, make a sandwich.

He boiled a cup of tea as well and sipped it slowly, trying to settle his stomach.

Steps came closer, and he recognized the sound as belonging to his mother even before she showed herself.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked. Her voice was frail and tired, like it had been all those months ago, when his father died. Back then, he had done all that he could to ease her pain. Now, it enraged him. How dare she? How _dare_ she, after what she had done?

"No."

"Bad dreams?"

He stood up and started packing away the food. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Was it... the explosion, or..."

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" He poured out the rest of the tea and threw the sandwich in the trash.

"Peter, I know this is hard."

"Hard? You were gonna let me destroy New York! Tell me, are you even sorry that he's dead, or just that your little plan failed?"

She grabbed his arm, sending a mass of images through his brain of a child he'd only ever seen on family photos yet recognized clearly. He flinched. "Don't."

"Why ask questions if you can't stand the answer?" she asked. Her voice was steely and cold, now, but there were tears glittering in her eyes.

The child grew into a teen, then a man, and there was the second child �" him, along with Dad, younger and more carefree than he remembered him. A family, a whole family, and there was Nathan's wedding, and the boys' births... he tore his arm from her grip and forced her out of his mind, unable to stand any more of this.

"Whatever you think of me, Peter," she whispered, "don't for a minute think I don't love my children."

"Then why?" he asked, desperate to understand despite fearing what he would hear. "_Why_!?"

Her cold fingers touched his face, wiping away his tears with the back of her hand, and he let it happen. "You've never been to war, Peter. I can't expect you to understand what it's like, when your duty no longer lies in keeping the family alive."

"How could it possibly be your duty to destroy New York?"

She watched him for a while, and seemed ready to say something, but shrugged instead. "It doesn't matter. That future is gone now. Whatever lies ahead, it's very jumbled, very unsure... and we've lost him."

She turned and left, and he reached out with his mind, but caught nothing but weariness before she was gone entirely.

Leaning against the refrigerator, he pressed his fingers against closed eyelids, missing Nathan so badly that he couldn't breathe. The one person he could count on, and he'd killed him. If only Claire was here, or even Claude with his acid barbs �" anyone who wasn't a Petrelli, who didn't lie to him and who he didn't have to lie to.

Most of all, he wanted a second chance, starting over, trying again �" which he _could_, thanks to Hiro denying himself that chance, didn't he allow this to happen? Letting his brother die over and over again, because he feared rocking the boat.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I can't. I'm so sorry."


	2. What Country, Friends, Is This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 2**

**Chapter 2**

The room was light, a dim kind of light that didn't fit the time of the alarm clock, which was three fifteen. He turned his head, seeing a room that was sparingly decorated, but still very clearly inhabited by a woman. There were brushes and a mirror on the bureau, a skirt thrown over a chair, and a row of glass and porcelain cats on a shelf. Above the shelf, there was an embroidered cloth with foreign letters – _Arabic_, his mind said. Of course, the family from last night. He'd been given the room of one of the daughters, the one who had left while he was still in the bath. Aisha.

He sat up, pulling at the collar of his pyjama jacket. It was loose enough, but he felt weird wearing it, as if he didn't normally. Well, that was a clue as good as any, he guessed.

The pile of clothes Adil had fetched for him was lying on a nearby chair, and he went to put them on. Gray cotton pants of medium quality, a blue shirt, white tube socks. Buttoning up the shirt, he noticed a burn mark on one of his fingers. The ring finger. He held up his left hand and studied the mark, which went all the way round. There had been a wedding ring there, he could swear it, and whatever had burned his clothes had made the ring hot enough to burn him. And then what? Had it melted?

He was _married_. The realization hit him hard. Somewhere out there, there was a wife missing him, maybe children, and he didn't have a single memory of them.

He looked in the mirror, seeing a figure that was familiar and strange at the same time. Adil's clothes were too short and slightly too wide, which made them look odd on him. Well, at least he was dressed and warm, which was a hell of a lot better than last night.

There were low sounds coming from beyond the door, and so he left the room, catching sight of a dark ponytail and the flickering screen of a TV set, from which he heard voices speaking in English, interrupted by laughter. Coming closer, he found that it was the youngest girl, who had traded her night clothes for a bright red top and low-cut jeans and was now half-lying on the sofa.

”Hey,” she said, reaching for the remote so she could turn off the sound. ”You must have been very tired.” Her English was a lot like her brother's – fairly good, but slow and accented.

”Yeah,” he said. ”Thanks for letting me stay.”

She leaned her chin on her hand, watching him with curious interest. ”I'm not letting you do anything. That was Mom and Dad. And Qais, I guess, for taking you home in the first place.”

”It was very kind of them,” he said. Taking a complete stranger into their home, and one who was dressed like he had been – he'd been very lucky to be found by people who'd do something like that. He very much doubted he would have done the same thing himself. ”Where are they?”

”Work. Well, Qais is in the shop buying food, the rest are working. I got home only a few minutes ago. I'm your babysitter right now.” She grinned at him.

Leaving a complete stranger alone with their young daughter, then. He was starting to worry about this family's safety. ”Well, that's very kind of you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name last night.”

”It's Rim.”

”Like on a glass?” he asked, tracing a circle in the air.

She giggled. ”Yes! Like a glass.”

”Bad joke. I guess you've heard it a thousand times.”

”Not really. We don't speak English that often.”

”Of course. Yeah.” He sat down in an armchair, watching the muted TV. The screen had foreign captions, but the people on it looked familiar.

”Is it true that you don't remember anything?” Rim asked. ”Not even your name?”

”No,” he said, concentrating his gaze on the tall, balding man on the screen. ”Nothing.”

”That's... bad.”

The inadequacy of the word made him smile. ”Yes. It's very bad.”

”May I give you one?”

He gave her a puzzled look. ”A name?”

”Yes. It has to be better to have one, right? Even if it's not the right one?”

She had a point. Of all the things he couldn't remember, his name pained him the most. ”Did you have a particular name in mind?”

”No.” She sat silent for a minute, brow furrowed, and then said, ”Kalle!”

”Kuh-le?” he repeated. Well, that _definitely_ wasn't his name. But maybe that was just as well. Having something almost right might have been worse. ”What does it mean?”

”Oh, it's this really common Swedish name. Like Karl, except Kalle, like if you're too lazy to say Karl or something. Everyone's called Kalle. Kalle Anka, Kalles kaviar, Kalle Blomkvist, Kalle och chokladfabriken... it's barely even a name. More like saying: I'm here now, I have a Swedish name!”

”Kalle,” he tried again, slowly. ”You think I should have a Swedish name?”

”Yeah.” She bit her lip in mock thought. ”Would you rather have an Arabic name? You could be Mohammad or something, but I don't know. It doesn't feel right.”

”And Kalle does?” he asked wryly.

”90 of Swedes are called Kalle. You'll fit right in.”

”All right then,” he agreed. It was so bizarre he might as well go along with it.

”Although we could use Mohammad too, if you want. Kalle Mohammad. First name – last name.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Are you trying to make me even more confused than I already am?”

”Is it working?” she asked with a wide grin.

”Nope.” Truth be told, it had quite the opposite effect. Kalle Mohammad might be a silly invention, but at least that silliness was something to hold on to. He leaned back in his chair and nodded at the screen. ”What are you watching?”

”Um... I don't know the name in English. It's about aliens.”

”Could you turn the sound on?”

She obliged, and he watched the rest of the episode. It was simple, comfortable and sometimes very funny, and he had a feeling that he might have seen it before. The tall man seemed familiar, as did the scary blonde and the long-haired boy – though seeing him gave echoes of a different kind of familiarity, something further away, just an association maybe, but much more important. He tried to follow the feeling into his mind, but it kept eluding him, like an itch he couldn't reach. Instead he found himself asking, ”Is there a fat guy on this show? With glasses?”

”Huh? Oh, yeah, the cop. I don't think he's in this ep.”

”Holy shit.”

”What?”

He rubbed his forehead. A memory. An honest-to-God memory, and it was a character in a stupid TV show.

He found it hard to keep concentration up after that, and was relieved when he heard a turn of a key in the front door, followed by Qais shouting in Arabic. Rim rolled her eyes, but jumped up, running into the hall, and he followed, figuring it was something to do, at least.

”Hey,” Qais said, dumping the bags on the kitchen floor. ”Hope you like lamb.”

”I guess we'll find out.” He looked around the kitchen. It was painted in light colours, with matching table and chairs in simple design.

Rim took two cartons of milk and put them in the fridge, then gesturing for his benefit: ”Meat and such on the top, fruit and vegetables on the bottom.”

”Right.” Easy enough system, though they had to move things around a bit to fit the lamb steak in.

”Did you sleep good?” Qais asked him.

”I did.” He hesitated, but these kids were so trusting, he kind of felt protective towards them. ”Listen, I'm grateful for what your family is doing, but... was it really wise to leave me alone in your home?”

”Rim was there.”

”That's part of my point. You don't know me from Adam. What if I had harmed her?”

Qais put a jar of mayonnaise on a shelf and then paused. ”You looked very bad this morning. I was more afraid that you would die while you slept.”

”You looked like something ate you and spat you back out,” Rim added helpfully.

Considering how he'd felt, it was probably an accurate description. ”Yeah, but I could have been a junkie or something.”

”Junkie?” Rim asked.

”Drugs,” both men said at once. Qais filled in, ”I saw your arms. You're not a junkie.”

”Fine, so an escaped convict.”

”In expensive clothes?”

”I was wearing _rags_.”

”Expensive rags. Good quality, before you... whatever happened to you.”

He hadn't even consider that, and he realized that possibly, this family knew more about him than he did, just by paying attention to details. He sat down heavily on a chair, running his fingers through his hair. ”Anything else you want to tell me about me?”

Qais tossed a few oranges into the fruit bowl, grabbed one for himself, and sat down. ”You speak very good English. You probably are... not English-English. Maybe American or Canadian. Or at least you have lived there. But I don't get a touristy vibe from you. It's a bit puzzling.”

”How can you get a touristy vibe from someone who's just had an accident?” Rim protested. ”Talk sense!”

He didn't say anything, because he could see what Qais was getting at. Definitely not a touristy vibe.

”Maybe a businessman,” Qais continued. ”Well-off, in any case. Probably not a refugee.”

”Handsome,” Rim said, causing him to start a little. She was a _child_, for crying out loud.

Qais evidently felt the same. ”Old enough to be our father.”

”_Married_,” he said, holding up his hand. ”Ring marks.”

”Good call,” Qais said approvingly. ”Protective – maybe a father. Or an older brother.”

”Suspicious around strangers,” Rim said.

”Not Arabic.”

”Or Swedish.”

”Possibly Bosnian or Albanian. Maybe Turkish, but I doubt it. Although...” Qais' cheeks suddenly got a bright pink color. ”Wherever you're from, you could be Muslim.”

He frowned. Being given a religion seemed a pretty big deal. ”How's that?”

”Well, you're – I mean, this morning, in the bathroom, I noticed – Oh, don't make me say this in front of my sister!”

Rim burst into giggles, clearly knowing exactly what her brother was talking about.

”What?” he asked, feeling more than a little frustrated to be left out of a joke on his behalf.

”Khitan,” Rim said. ”Omskärelse. Your parts - ” she gave a gesture that was vague, yet still unmistakable ” - have been changed. Muslims do that. Not Christians.”

”Oh.” While that wasn't anything he would have paid attention to on his own, he still was a bit uncomfortable at the turn this conversation had taken.

Qais seemed to share the emotion, because he gave a deep groan and hid his face in his hands. ”I am _very_ glad Dad is not home and can hear this.”

This caused Rim to stick out her tongue at Qais and say something, which caused him to throw an orange at her, which caused them both to dissolve into something that sounded like insults, though they were both grinning while they spoke.

At one point, Rim switched to English, telling him, ”I know one thing we know about you, though.”

”What's that?”

”You're Kalle Mohammad.”

Qais snorted. ”He's _what_?”

He smiled. ”That's true. I am.”

* * *

As it turned out, he did like lamb, or at least lamb the way Zaynab Mansour cooked it, in onion and tomato sauce and served with rice. He liked Zaynab herself too, even though their ability to understand each other was severely limited.

”Ismi Zaynab,” she had told him the minute she stepped inside the door after work. ”You okay now?”

”I'm okay,” he had assured her. ”Nice to meet you, Zaynab.”

”Nice meet you,” she echoed, and the words were chopped and few, but the sentiment shone through in a way that made him feel honored.

Like he'd previously felt with Qais, he got an almost-memory off her. Something about her wide cheekbones and generous mouth really rang a bell, and as he watched her chat away with Adil in whatever language they were using at the moment, he wondered if it was his own wife he was reminded of. Did he have a family much like this one? Younger, most likely; he couldn't quite see himself with a daughter of Aisha's age. At least he sincerely hoped not, seeing how he was highly aware of how attractive Aisha was, with features much like her mother's but a softer chin and larger eyes.

They tried to hold their conversation in English during the meal, which worked for the most part with the younger generation, but whenever a parent got involved, somehow they slipped back into another language. Even so, he found that he could understand a lot of what was going on just by body language, tone of voice and whatever words he managed to pick up. Asking about someone's day sounded and looked a certain way, as did the gentle ribbing done between the family members, and of course the many requests to pass one thing or another.

After a while of listening to the latter in particular, he took a chance and asked Zaynab, ”Skicka bread, please?”

Everyone stopped eating, staring at him wide-eyed. Zaynab passed him the bread, her usual smile replaced with a stunned expression.

Aisha was the one to ask the question written on everybody's faces. ”How did you know?”

”You've been saying it all meal. It is the right word, isn't it? Skicka?”

”It's the right word. You're smart! We'll have you speaking Swedish in no time.”

”Arabic,” her father corrected.

”Both!” said Qais.

”At the same time!” Rim filled in.

They all laughed, and he laughed too, feeling for a moment like part of the family.

The trouble was, he _wasn't_ part of the family. He had a family somewhere, and the others had politely postponed the question of what they were supposed to do about that fact. It put him slightly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When everyone was full, all the dishes put in the washer and all the leftovers in the fridge, Adil got a serious look on his face and gestured for him to go into the living room, where they sat down on the sofa.

”Have you decided if you want that we call the police?” Adil asked very seriously. ”So that we can learn who you are and how you come here?”

A shudder went down his spine. He didn't know why – it was a reasonable question, and as far as he knew, he had no reason to fear the police. And yet the mere thought of someone investigating how he'd got there made his pulse race.

Adil watched him closely, a worried wrinkle between his marked eyebrows. ”Worry you not. We will not force you. You are shock, I can see. You can stay here until you are ready. But it will be difficult for you, to live in Sweden without papers, ID.” He pronounced it EEdeh, but the point got through. ”You will be nobody.”

”I'll be Kalle Mohammad,” he said with a breath of mirthless laughter, rubbing his forehead. After a while of thinking, he shook his head. ”I can't ask that of you.”

”We have people here before,” Adil said, patting his hand. ”Hide. It is okay. Qais say that we can trust you.”

”How does he know? _I_ don't even know that.”

”Qais know,” Adil said, sounding very sure of it. ”We have man here, Qais said to us to not hide. We hide him not, then catch police him. He was a... he had done bad things, in the war. Killed many. The women... bad things.”

”Bad things,” he echoed quietly, trying to think. So Qais had known a war criminal at sight. Didn't mean the kid was right about him. But why would he care? He had a hell of an opportunity at his feet here. People just dying to help their fellow man, and him in – face it – dire need of help. It was either this, or the police, or trying to make it on his own, with no memory, in a foreign country. Definitely not an alluring concept. ”All right. Thanks.”

Adil gave him a last comforting pat on the arm and stood up, bad leg making it quite a struggle. ”Good. You are welcome here.”

He remained seated, thinking things through. Having a place to stay was a good start, but it wasn't enough. He'd need a job, something to do – even if the Mansours were willing to take financial responsibility for him, he'd drive himself crazy just sitting around the house. And above all, of course, he needed some way to get those damned memories back.

A large, flat object landed on his lap.

”Here you go,” Rim said. ”I'm leaving for work, but I thought you might want this.”

He stared at the world map adorning the cover and asked, ”What is it?” even though he could see perfectly well what it was.

”My Atlas. You can see if anything looks familiar.”

It was a brilliant idea, although somewhat ruined by the Atlas being in Swedish. The first few pages were full of strangely spelled names with with lots of ö and å in them, and he leafed them by, certain that none of those was his home.

He paused longer at the pages depicting ”Europa”. Many of the words were still foreign to him, but the shapes of countries were old friends, as known to him as the curve of a wheel. His eyes were drawn to certain towns: London, Aix-en-Provence, Syrakusa. Were they places he had been, or did they just hold some other special meaning?

Turning another page, his eyes were drawn to a tiny piece of land: ”Bosnien och Hercegovina.” Within that land, ”Srebrenica.”

The sound of gunfire was so loud that he jumped, but of course no one was shooting. The livingroom was as calm as it had ever been, with the family gathered around the TV set to watch some musical show. Part of him wanted to stay in the cosy atmosphere, but he forced himself to look back into the Atlas and follow the gunfire.

There was no logic to what he saw, just images: a man shouting orders, a wall with most of the facade gone, an old woman sitting on a large suitcase, his own hands lifting a kid on board a truck. His head started to hurt. Then, suddenly, he was high above it all, detached and free, seeing things clearly without the chaos and noise of the ground to distract him from what had to be done. The controls lay light in his hands, and he felt a connection to the machine that filled him with excitement despite the gravity of the situation.

A war pilot. Was that it? In what war, and on which side?

”Are you okay?”

He hurried to turn another page, and nodded at Qais, giving him a bright smile. ”I'm fine. Just brushing up my geography.”

It was pretty clear the kid didn't believe him, but he didn't push the issue either, just shrugged and returned to the TV show.

He kept leafing through the pages, looking for another memory. USA and Canada stayed open for quite some time, as he searched through the cities. The family had deemed his accent American, and maybe it was. He recognized many of the names on the page, but couldn't say anything more about them; there was no immediate, visceral memory like there had been with Srebrenica. He had a feeling there should be, but no matter how long he stared at the page, he couldn't make any images appear.

Only once more through the whole book did he get such a flash again, and it was much briefer: at Tokyo, Japan he saw a face, round and grinning, with innocense shining in the bespectacled eyes. It was over as quickly as it had begun, but it left him feeling oddly cheerful, almost amused.


	3. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 3**

**Chapter 3**

He was the last to bed that night. Adil waited up until Rim had returned from work, and Qais hung around for quite some time – he seemed to have very irregular work hours. But when the clock went from twelve to one, even Qais said his goodnights. Watching TV with so many people sleeping would have been rude, and there didn't seem to be any books to read, so at a loss of what to do, he resorted to his new bedroom. The cats' painted eyes watched him from their shelf, and he wavered between finding them comfortable and unsettling.

Somehow during the course of the night he must have fallen asleep, because he was definitely sleeping when Adil knocked on the door.

”Hunh?” he grunted into the pillow.

Adil watched him from the doorway. ”I think that you come long way. Or that you travel on the night.”

”Yeah,” he agreed groggily, looking at the alarm clock. Ten AM. Well, it was better than yesterday. ”I seem to be a nocturnal creature, all right.” The strange part was, he didn't _feel_ nocturnal. Jet lag? But from _where_?

”I work not today,” Adil said. ”I am 25 pro cent sick.”

He blinked. ”25...”

”Pro cent sick. Disability.”

”Oh. Right.” That made sense, once he had untangled it in his head.

”Want you go out? Or stay here?”

”Out,” he said immediately. Just sitting around doing nothing was enough to drive him crazy.

”Okay. I think that we can go to library. See what you know. Or Internet, but Internet is here. Library is in the city.”

”Yeah. All right.” It was actually a pretty good idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. From what he had seen during that first bus ride, this town was large enough that any library was bound to have at least one English language newspaper, not to mention books to keep him busy if his sleepless nights continued.

This time, they went by car, meaning that he missed the tinned voice calling out names of places around the city, but gained Adil saying much the same things in plain English. Even though he very much doubted he'd be able to find his way back to all those squares and shops and statues, he appreciated seeing them, knowing they were there. It made his world just that much bigger.

”And here it is,” Adil concluded, steering the car into a parking lot.

The library, on the other hand, he definitely wouldn't forget. From one side, it was an old brick building, vaguely castle-like, but when they turned a corner he found that the brick building was connected to a modern-looking section with smooth surfaces and a multitude of large windows. He couldn't decide if it was brilliant or a disaster, but he quite liked it.

”Newspapers is to right,” Adil said. ”Café, children's books... rest is up.” He pointed upstairs. ”Where want you start?”

”Newspapers sound good.”

The newspaper section had several titles in English. He picked up USA Today and International Herald Tribune and sat down with them. The international section held articles on Iraq, Darfur, fires, floods, elections in a couple of places – for some reason those articles made him stop for a moment even though he didn't even remember the countries, much less any presidential candidates. News from the USA included a discovery of a new protein, a UFO sighting in New York City (UFO sightings in the morning news? Journalism was clearly at a new low), the death of a crime lord...

He stopped short at that, and his heart started beating faster as he tore his eyes away from the article as if it had burned him.

”Is something wrong?” Adil asked, giving him a worried look over the edge of his own newspaper.

He smiled, forcing himself to appear calm. ”Of course not. Why would anything be wrong? Listen, I may take a while here. Looking up some books and stuff. It'll be boring for you. You don't have to babysit me, we can meet up again in a few hours.”

”Are you sure?”

”Very sure. You've got to have better things to do on your day off, right?”

Adil seemed hesitant, but got up from his seat. ”Okay.”

He kept his smile, even when Adil clasped his shoulder and he wanted to shield the article from sight. Which was ridiculous; it was just a news piece. He had every right to read it.

”Two hours,” Adil said, ”then I meet you here. Okay?”

”Okay,” he agreed.

He waited until Adil was out of sigh, hating the slow way the other man moved, and then returned his attention to the article. _Death of Las Vegas crime lord still a mystery_.

The further down he came, the more seasick he felt. The crime lord, Linderman, had been found dead in New York, his brain showing evidence of severe physical trauma, but with no damage to the skull. The doctors quoted in the article essentially hemmed and hawed, trying to figure out a reason for that one. The police said that they couldn't confirm any suspects, though the article theorized a bit about Linderman's different enemies.

Linderman. He knew that name. He knew that _face_, the almost laughably harmless old man in the newspaper's grainy image. Chasing that image, he saw the same old man taking a pot pie out of an oven – a crime lord making pot pies? - but it kept being interrupted by other faces, one light, one dark, and a woman's voice saying, _Let _us _finish the job_.

Had he been a mobster? Was that it? It was certainly as plausible a reason as any why he would end up half naked on a foreign shore. Was he the one who had... No. He didn't want to know.

He closed both papers and put them back where he'd found them, walking with long strides as if to quickly put a distance between himself and that article.

But what now? He had two hours left before he had to meet up with Adil. Somehow he didn't think he'd be able to just sit down with a good book.

Well. There certainly wasn't any limit to the things he needed to find out.

”Excuse me,” he asked at the information desk. ”Do you have any books about amnesia?”

”Humaniora, section D, or possibly V,” the librarian replied. She was kind of pretty in an anemic way; the first person he'd met here who vaguely resembled his ideas of Sweden. ”Upstairs, in the calendar of light.”

”Calendar of light? Nice name.” He followed her directions and after some searching found section D. Some of the books were even in English, but he couldn't quite find what he was looking for. _The Science of the Mind_, _How the Mind Works_... lots of books that might have something, but he wasn't ready to plow through pages after pages on a hunch.

Going further down the section, he found himself looking at completely different types of books. Telepathy, telekinesis... just as he was about to go back, his eyes fell on the title _Activating Evolution_.

Slowly, he pulled the book out. It looked like the kind of insane ramblings you'd expect to find in a New Age shop, but it stirred his memory in a way that... it was unpleasant, but not frightening in the same way the article had been. This was mixed with something else – no, _someone_ else. Someone he really wanted to remember.

”Do you need help?”

Another librarian, much older, but with a very sweet smile. ”Please. Do you have anything in English on amnesia?”

”Hm, let's see. That would be further down the aisle, cognitive psychology.”

”Yeah, I've looked but I couldn't find anything.”

”Well, let's take a look at the catalogue, then.” She motioned for him to come along to a work station, where she spent a few minutes typing into the computer. ”Let's see... There's _The Essential Handbook of Memory Disorders for Clinicians_...”

”Perfect.”

”Only in e-book, I'm afraid. Will that do?”

”E-book?”

”Digital form. To read on the computer.”

”Oh. Yeah, that's fine.”

”Are you having the book you're holding, too?”

He had forgotten about that one, but handed it over. She raised her eyebrows. ”Parapsychology and amnesia. Interesting combination. Is there a link?”

_Yeah, me, apparently_ . ”No, I just like reading.”

”Well, we certainly encourage that! Do you have a card?”

He probably did, somewhere, but certainly not for this library. Nor did he have an ID to get one. He wrote down the title anyway – perhaps he could ask Adil to get it for him later. The evolution book too, he supposed. The thought of bringing such a book back to the apartment was slightly embarrassing, but he didn't quite want to let go of it just yet.

When the two hours were up and he went back to meet Adil in the newspaper section, his arms were full.

”Hello again,” he said. ”Would you mind lending me your library card, please?”

Adil made a funny face at the sight of the pile. ”I believe I must, right? What is this?”

”Mostly language stuff.”

They went over to the machine and Adil picked up a couple of CDs at the top of the pile. ”This is songs.”

”In French and Italian. It seems I speak those languages. I want to brush up my skills a bit.”

Adil kept looking at the media as he took them through the machine. ”Language course on Swedish, very good. Arabic... Serbo-Croatian?”

”They didn't have Bosnian. This is close, right?”

”Yes. Why need you speak Bosnian?”

”I think I already do.”

”Really? Huh.”

Adil let _Activating Evolution_ pass without a word, of which he was grateful. In fact, it wasn't until they were back in the car that Adil said anything else at he did, it was slow and searching. ”There is a doctor near here. We have used her before, to our guests. She can keep a secret. I asked her about you.”

”You asked a doctor about me?” He wasn't too happy about that. Still, a doctor was better than the cops, especially if he really was mixed up somehow in the Linderman thing.

”She said that she can meet you tomorrow, if you want.”

Tomorrow? Tomorrow gave him some time to think about it. To come up with ways that she could help him without finding out his connection to Linderman – whatever that connection was. If she was as discreet as Adil implied, it shouldn't be too hard to get her to step away from a few issues. Besides, he might need the help. He didn't feel injured, but something sure as hell had scrambled his brains, and he very much doubted he'd be able to sort it all out on his own.

Beyond that, there was also the question of not looking so suspicious that these people chucked his ass out on the curb. Going to the doctor might buy him some much needed goodwill.

”All right,” he said. He could always change his mind later. ”Thank you.”

”You are welcome.” Adil patted his knee. ”You will be better soon.”

”Yeah,” he said with a sigh. ”Let's hope so.”

* * *

He had honestly thought that there was nothing to worry about. That was the problem with honest, generous people: they caught you off guard. Like a poker game played with open cards, and then some cherub-faced half-child goes, hey, what about that ace up your sleeve?

It was after dinner, he was lying on the bed, listening to some of the French songs on the CD he had borrowed. As it turned out, his French wasn't bad, but not that good either – he could get the gist of each song but not the details. He'd been feeling relaxed, calm, and for a moment the thoughts had stopped chasing each other in his head.

And then Adil came in, sat down in the large armchair by the door, leaned his chin in his hand and asked, ”Can we talk about the article?”

He stiffened immediately. ”What article?”

”_That_ article,” Adil said with a tight smile. ”That make you look like that. About the dead crime lord.”

”I don't know what you're talking about.”

”You asked me to leave. I leaved, but I come back later. I read the article. This man, Linderman, was a murder. Knew you him?”

”I was just interested in the article, that's all. I mean, mobsters, mysterious deaths – that always makes for good entertainment, doesn't it?”

Adil nodded. ”Ah-hah.” After a moment's pause, he added, ”I can talk to Qais. Ask him to tell me when you lie.”

”Yeah,” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. ”Why don't you do that?” It was all a bunch of nonsense anyway, really. That kid couldn't tell liars by sight; it was all bragging, or maybe some superstitious mumbo-jumbo. Still, he felt a twinge of fear as Adil slowly walked out of the room.

When he returned, it was in the company of not only Qais but also Zaynab, who took the desk chair while Adil returned to his seat and Qais leaned against the desk.

”Making a family event of this?” That came out a lot more snippy than intended.

Qais gave him a reproaching look. ”It's her home too. She's got the right to know what's going on.”

”Best of luck with that.” He leaned forward and spoke slowly, hoping Zaynab would catch his drift. ”I don't _know_ what's going on. I don't remember, remember?”

”Why read you the article?” Adil asked. His voice was kind and gentle, but his eyes were steady on him.

”It was there. It was interesting. Why shouldn't I read it?”

Adil threw a glance at Qais, who shook his head.

”Why more?”

”Why _more_?”

”Knew you him?”

”No.”

”Yes,” Qais said, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

”How?”

This was really getting too much to take. ”Why don't you ask your son? He seems to know more about my life than I do.” He turned to Qais, giving him a commanding tilt of the chin. ”Come on. Tell me. How do I know Linderman?”

”I don't know. It's not like reading minds. I can only tell what's true or not.”

”Great. I'll give you a few theories. How about that? Then you can tell me if they're true or not.”

”That's not the way it works.”

”Why not?”

”You wouldn't know if you were lying.”

”So all you can tell me is what I already know.”

”Yes. I...”

”Then you're pretty useless, aren't you?”

Qais's tan face became high red with anger, and he clenched his fists. ”Useless? Do you think I asked for this? That I prayed the Lord to make me special so that I could be useful to _you_? Is that supposed to be my purpose in life? I looked that guy up on the internet. If you're involved in the shit he did, we could all be in a lot of trouble. And none of us signed up to get killed. Do you even care about that, you selfish motherfuck...”

”Qais!” The word was sharp as a whip, and Adil frowned at his son for a moment before raising his hands in a soothing gesture. ”Please. Both. Calm down yourself.” Adil said something that made Qais lose some of the blush and cross his arms over his chest, though he still looked far from happy. ”I try help my family. Protect them.”

”I know you do.” He rubbed his forehead. It was a reasonable desire, and he would definitely have gone to much greater lengths to pursue it. Didn't make it any more pleasant.

Zaynab started speaking, and when no one translated she made a motion in Qais direction like swatting a fly.

”She says you don't have to worry,” Qais said reluctantly. ”That we're not going to make you leave like we made that man leave, since I'm not sensing any harm in you. Which I'm not. She says that we have to help you, because you need us to. That anyone would do the same, as...” He broke off. ”I don't know what 'sadaqah' would be in English. When you give even though you don't have to, because the gift is needed.”

”Charity?” he offered, feeling a sting of bitterness at the word.

”Charity. Okay, yeah, something like that.” Qais swallowed and gave his mother a resentful glance, but she kept talking as if she didn't even notice. After a while, he continued his translation. ”She says we need to know what's wrong, so we can protect ourself – and you. If there are people coming for you, we can help you hide, or send you on to other people who will, if you think that's safer. Just talk to us. Please.”

It was strange, hearing such kind words spoken in such an angry voice, but watching Zaynab made it a little bit easier. Her face was calm and pleasant, and her voice soothing. When she had stopped talking and Qais was finished with his translation, there was a pause, as all three of his hosts waited for him to say something. Though how on earth he'd be able to explain what he'd learned, he had no idea.

”There are two memories,” he said reluctantly. ”And they don't make any sense together. 'Cause I keep seeing Linderman, he's talking to me like an old friend – but I don't feel like a friend. I feel...” Scared. He felt scared, and tense, and like there was a big pit of frozen rage inside him that he had to keep cool so it wouldn't blow up on him. ”And then there's the second memory. A woman, talking about killing someone. I think it's him. She's talking about killing him, and I think... I think I helped her.”

Qais interpreted back to his mother, and then said, in a completely different tone of voice, ”Wait, you helped kill this guy? The crime lord?”

”Maybe. Yeah.”

”But then you're a good guy.”

”Am I? I'm not so sure.”

”He was a bad guy. If you...”

Adil shifted in his seat and told Qais something that made the younger man go still.

”Bad men often kill bad men,” Adil said quietly. ”For money, or power.”

”I know,” he agreed.

Adil watched him for a very long time. ”You are afraid that you helped to kill him for bad reasons. That you traitor him.”

”I guess so.”

”Bullshit,” Qais said. ”Bullshit! Are you telling me I wouldn't be able to tell if you were that kind of guy? That _you_ wouldn't be able to tell?”

”Maybe not, no.”

”Then maybe you're right, and I am useless.” Qais sat back down, running his fingers through his hair, and gave a deep sigh.

”You are not,” his father said. ”The past is past. What Kalle is now, is not a killer. No?”

”No.” It felt good to be able to agree to that, at least.

”Qais?”

Qais' gaze was steady, and he actually smiled a little as he confirmed, ”No.”

”Then if you was a bad man, you are lucky. You have get a new life.”

The thought of that was so relieving that he resisted his desire to believe in it, finding the potential flaws in the idea instead. ”What if they come for me?”

”Different clothes, different hair... beard? This is a big town. Easy to not become noticed. If anyone seem bad, you ask Qais. We all prepare, that maybe bad men come, but we go on live as normal.”

He looked down on the ill-fitting, cheap clothes he was wearing and thought about it. Considering he didn't know who he was or where he was from, any way of reinventing himself wouldn't necessarily be _less_ convincing than the truth. He'd have to be careful in public of course – even more so if and when he tried to get some sort of a job. Still, it might just work.

”I'd like that,” he said. ”Thank you.”

Adil nodded and stood up. ”Want you tell the girls, or will I?”

The girls. Right. ”I don't even know what to tell them.”

”We tell them, then.”

Adil spoke with Zaynab, and they both offered him reassuring smiles as they left the room. Qais halted behind for a moment, seeming to brace himself, before holding out his hand.

He shook it. ”No hard feelings?”

Qais offered him a wide, relieved grin. ”No hard feelings.”


	4. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 4**

**Chapter 4**

He was woken up the next morning by Zaynab and Rim having a loud discussion in the kitchen. Leaving his room to see what was going on, he met Adil in the hallway.

”I must go,” Adil said with an apologetic smile. ”Sorry.”

”Sure,” he said, wondering why that would be a problem. Then it hit him. ”I thought you were taking me to the doctor.”

”I work. I thinked Qais will take you, but he work too.”

”So who is taking me?”

Adil made a grimace and nodded towards the kitchen, apologized again, and left.

Well. That was an encouraging start to the day. He went into the kitchen, where Rim was in the middle of a very fast, very long sentence that didn't seem to include any pause for breathing. With one hand, she was gesturing at her mother, and with the other she was pouring juice over her cornflakes.

”Hello,” Zaynab said when he entered, giving him a smile and then giving a comment in a sharp tone to Rim. The girl looked down, saw what she was doing, and pulled back the carton of juice while she said something that was very clearly an expletive.

”Hi!” she said, walking over to the sink so she could dump the cornflakes in the trash. ”Listen, you want someone with you who actually speaks English, right?”

”That would probably help, yes,” he said with some caution.

Rim turned to her mother, tilted her chin, and issued a triumphant statement that was definitely some variation of ”I told you so.”

Zaynab turned to him. ”School! She school!”

”Oh. Well, hey, I can't argue with that. School's important.”

”So's her job. It's not that big a deal, it's not like I have a test or anything.”

Her tone was so casual that his eyes immediately narrowed. ”You have a test?”

”No! I said I don't have a test, didn't I?”

”Hm. Has Qais left already?”

”Qais work,” Zaynab said. ”Sorry.”

”Yes, I know.”

”You don't believe me?” Rim asked, her dark eyes looking so wide and innocent there _had_ to be something fishy going on.

”No, I don't.” He told Zaynab, very slowly, ”I think she has a test.”

”Test?” She turned to her daughter, startled.

”I don't, I really don't!”

The two of them talked for a while, in louder and louder voices, and then Rim stepped back with a huff. ”I hate you,” she said, pointing at him.

”That's okay, at least you're getting educated. Does the doctor speak English?”

”No.” She sat down and started pouring herself some new cornflakes. ”Just Eskimo and Latin. Oh my God! She's a _doctor_. Of course she speaks English!”

”Then can't I go on my own?”

”You're in a strange country,” she said calmly, sounding like he was seven years old and she was forty-five. ”You don't speak the language, you don't have any memory, and you may be chased by gangsters. Which is really weird, by the way. You're not going on your own.”

”If you guys give me directions, I'm pretty sure I could.”

”Mom'll take you.” She dug into her cornflakes with a certain viciousness. ”Serves you right.”

* * *

As it turned out, travelling with Zaynab was quite pleasant. There wasn't all that much he needed to know that couldn't be communicated through gestures, expressions, and simple nudges. Get on the bus. Sit on the bus and watch the streets go by. He was starting to get used to the green buses and the low buildings, though he kept feeling that there should be much more people around. He tried closing his eyes and multiplying everyone by ten: the teenagers, the mothers with baby carriages (though you couldn't fit twenty baby carriages on a bus), the old people with walkers. It got so crowded that he had to open them again, relieved to find himself back in a half-empty space.

They got off at the bus station, which by now he started to recognize with its yellow-and-glass building in the middle. The doctor was a few blocks away, in an ordinary apartment building near a second-hand store. The mundane look of the place did wonders for his calm – no hospital smell, no green or white coats, just a solid wooden door with a name on it.

The woman who opened it had a green pant suit with a matching headscarf. During the brief minute when she shook their hands, he also had time to notice that her eyes were a similar colour. Then she ushered them in the direction of the living room and hurried away. He assumed that they were meant to wait.

The living room was the only thing that reminded him of a hospital visit. There were three people already sitting there, an elderly woman with freckles across her long, gloomy face, and a short, black man with a little boy of about six years or so, all with that restless waiting room demeanour. The coffee table had a stack of magazines, and he picked one up as he sat down. It was in Swedish, but with this kind of publication, it hardly mattered – it was basically picture after picture of beautiful young women in different outfits. Not very interesting, but at least it would keep him distracted for a while.

Zaynab, meanwhile, struck up a conversation with the other waiting patients. He noticed that they talked in slow, halting sentences, nothing like the rat-a-tat-tat going on in the Mansour home. Whichever language they were speaking, most likely Swedish, it didn't seem like the other three were very fluent in it. In a strange way, it made him feel more at home. At least he wasn't the only fish out of water. In contrast, Zaynab's mellow, slow sentences sounded much faster when spoken here, and ever so different from the few words she could manage in English.

It didn't take long before the doctor let out a young man with wheezing lungs and a sparse moustache, and let in the old woman. She spent only a few minutes inside the office before coming back, and he started to hope that this would all be over soon. Unfortunately, the man and the little boy took much longer. He quickly reached the point where he got tired of the magazines and started browsing the bookshelves for anything in English. When his turn came up, he was leafing through a medical dictionary which, among other things, had a very nasty image of a bedsore.

”Mr. Mohammad?”

”Hm? Oh. Right.” That was him. He'd have to get used to that, but then, it wasn't as if the Mansour's ever referred to him as Mr. anything.

The doctor smiled at him. ”I'm Emina Kaya. Sorry it took so long – hours are always a bit approximate here.” Her accent was different than the ones he had encountered so far, and much less noticeable.

”That's all right, I understand.”

Zaynab stood up, and the two women spoke together for a while, both voices and body language implying that they knew each other very well. It should have made him feel left out, but it didn't, because he had a hunch this was something he couldn't have shared even if he spoke the language.

After a few last phrases and a shared chuckle, Emina nodded towards the door. ”Do come inside.”

He went in, seeing an office that was neat and professional, yet gave a very lived-in atmosphere. Leaving Zaynab waiting outside was unsettling, but when you came down to it, her presence was pretty unnecessary.

”Now,” Emina said, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. ”As Adil explained it to me, you suffer from severe memory loss, is that correct?”

”Yes.”

”And you were found in West Harbour, with your clothes ruined.”

”That's right.”

”Hm.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a deck of cards. ”Okay. Let's start with a game, while you tell me all about this.”

It was a strange time to play a game of card, in a doctor's office during an examination, but he found it rather relaxing. He told her the details of how he had been found, skipping the dreamlike vision of shooting through the air that had preceded it – maybe it was important for her to know, but it was even more important for him to hide it; he felt the need through his entire body. Likewise, he didn't mention Linderman or the blonde when she started asking about his past, choosing to replace those memories with similar ones that would be less potentially damning.

He won the game, mainly because her poker face was really terrible. She shuffled the deck, put it back in the drawer, and uncapped her pen.

”Okay, new game. Pop quiz.”

Pop quiz. Right. That was one game he was pretty sure he couldn't play. The first few questions she rattled off, though, were the number of weeks in a year, the number of years in a century, things like that. Those he knew, and he got a bit relaxed.

”Which is bigger, the moon or the sun?”

”The sun.”

”Who's the president of the USA?”

”Franklin D Roosevelt.”

She reacted at that, the stream of questions halted for a moment. ”Um. Who's the...”

”That was wrong, wasn't it?” he asked.

”Well,” she said with an apologetic grimace, ”he was the president of the USA. During World War II.”

”Oh,” he said. Well, that was a hell of a mistake to make. ”Missed by a few decades, there.”

”Do you know when World War II was?”

”1939 to 1945.”

”Right. Who led the Germans during that time?”

”Hitler.”

She nodded. ”Hard name to forget. The Italians?”

”Berlusconi.”

Another flinch, smaller this time.

”That was wrong?”

”He's... a little bit more recent than that, yeah. You've got the right country and job for him, though, just like with Roosevelt.”

”Hooray for me,” he said bitterly.

She kept asking questions – some of them he couldn't answer at all, others he got wrong or partly wrong, and others still were really simple. And then there were the really frustrating ones, the ones that _should_ be simple, but weren't. Like the name of his mother, for crying out loud.

It wasn't until she ran out of questions that she started doing what he considered an examination: shining a light in his eyes, feeling the sore bump on his head, listening to his lungs.

”So,” he said once she was finished and they were both back in their chairs. ”What's wrong with me?”

She bit her lip for a moment, tapping her pen at the desk. ”There are three hypotheses I consider viable at this point. Either you have suffered brain damage due to that head injury of yours. That's possible, but I don't find it likely. Your skull doesn't seem fractured, and you don't have a concussion. However, you really should go to a hospital and be properly examined – I don't have access to an X-Ray machine or an MRI or any of those things in here.”

”I'd really rather not.”

”I figured,” she said with a wry smile. ”That's usually the case with my patients. I must warn you, though, it could be your life on the line. Sometimes there can be an aneurysm or similar which causes very few symptoms at first, but is fatal if left untreated for too long.”

”I feel fine.”

”Still. Promise me if you notice any other symptoms – any at all – that you go to the hospital, or at the very least return here. You don't need an appointment, just come right in.”

He watched her, weighing his possible answers, and finally gave her a wide grin. ”I promise.”

”Good. Second hypothesis is psychogenic amnesia – that the cause of your memory loss is psychological rather than physical. Considering what you've told me about how you were found, it's clear that you've suffered a very traumatic experience, and it's possible that your brain has chosen to react to this by refusing you access to your memories. Cases as extensive as yours are extremely rare, but they're not unheard of.”

”Why would my brain refuse me access to the name of the president of the United States?”

She tilted her head. ”Some people would call that a blessing. But you're right, the symptoms are atypical. Which leads me to hypothesis number three, that the stress put on both your body and mind triggered a small stroke.”

”A stroke?” That gave him images of drooling, half paralyzed old people in wheelchairs. ”I'm a bit too young for a stroke, aren't I?”

”Trust me, it happens to people even younger than you. If this is the case, it could happen again, and I can't stress enough that you should...”

”Be examined at a proper hospital. I know.”

”If you have any other symptoms, any whatsoever...”

”I know. I already promised. What about my memory? Am I ever gonna get it back?”

”I can't give you any guarantees,” she warned him, ”but yes, I think so. Part of it anyway. First of all, it's purely retrograde. You don't seem to have any problem forming new memories, which means what you learn, whether be it from your earlier life or your present, you're likely to remember. It's not fully global in the first place, either. Extensive, yes, but you're not a blank slate. You still have most of your skills, which is good. Your memories of basic trivia are affected but not destroyed. Your personal life is more seriously damaged, but again, not destroyed.”

”I can't remember _anything_,” he protested, frustrated.

”That's not true. You say you see faces, flashes. People you used to know.”

”Yeah.”

”That's promising. Then there's this.” She tore off a sheet from her pad of papers and gave it to him. ”These were your answers to the trivia questions which didn't make any kind of sense in the context. I think they may be parts of your own personal history, rather than common knowledge.”

He started reading the sheet. ”Hero Nakamura. Kerbie Plaza. Simon Montgomery. Silar. Peter. What am I supposed to do, look up every Peter in the phone book?” Even as he spoke, he saw a hand flicking away long dark hair from a slim face, and a lopsided smile.

”It means something to you, though, doesn't it?”

”Yeah,” he said slowly.

”I suggest you start with Hero Nakamura,” she said. ”That sounds specific enough to lead somewhere. And remember, it has only been a few days. You're already regaining some memories. It's far too early to throw in the towel.”

”I guess you're right.” Since she was rising from her chair, very clearly finished with the appointment, he reached out his hand. ”Thank you.”

”You're welcome. I only wish I could do more to help.” She shook his hand, then moved to open the door for him. ”Take care now.”

”I will,” he said, eyes already searching out Zaynab. The living room had a whole bunch of people in it now, but in her low-key way, she really stood out. Familiar, reliable.

What was that word Dr. Kaya had used about his amnesia? Retrograde. All his new memories, he could keep.

Count your blessings, and all that.

* * *

Having Zaynab around during the day eased his loneliness, but one thing she couldn't do was help him with the names on Dr. Kaya's list. And so he killed time with his CDs, waiting for the next person to come home.

He'd been expecting Rim, since he figured a school day would be shorter than a work day. But the first one back turned out to be Aisha. She threw herself on the sofa first thing, groaning loudly as she stretched out her back.

He watched her in silence. They'd never really talked – she was a lot quieter than her younger siblings and seemed less curious as well. Come to think of it, they spent much more time at home than her, too. Weren't young people supposed to come home only for meals and sleep? He wondered if they were always like that, or if it had to do with his presence.

Well, she was here now, and if he didn't know much about her, she certainly seemed kind enough. Had that pleasant, girl-next-door kind of face. Very pretty, though, and with a good sense of style – a pity that her clothes were so obviously low-price, of course.

”What?” she asked, arm still flung across her eyes.

”I wondered if you could help me with the Internet.”

She frowned at that and took the arm away so she could peer at him between half-closed lids. ”What with the Internet?”

”I need to look some things up.”

She nodded and sat up, throwing a glance at her watch. ”Will it take long?”

”I don't know. Depends on what I find.”

”Okay. I had better tell Donika I can't come, then. We would drink coffee.”

”Hey, if you have plans, this can wait.”

”No, it's okay.”

The computer – as far as he could tell the family's only computer – was in Rim's room, which was a bit crowded now that Aisha had a bed in there too. They squeezed in an extra chair and logged on to the Internet. The procedure seemed vaguely familiar, but he still left the actual searching to Aisha.

”Hero Nakamura,” she said after a minute or so. ”There is a businessman called Kaito Nakamura who has a son named Hiro, with an I. He disappeared.” Her voice changed quality on that last word. ”The eight november. That's a few days ago.”

”You don't think I'm him, do you?”

She threw him a quick glance and suddenly looked very much like her little sister. ”I don't think you are twenty-four years old and Japanese. No.” She clicked a bit and showed him a photo. ”This is him. Do you know him?”

”I think so,” he said, staring at the picture. This was the guy he'd seen the other day, during the Atlas search – he recognized the face and the glasses, though in his head the man was smiling, not serious and stunned-looking like here.

”He was on vacation in America.”

_I met a waitress in Texas._

He rubbed his forehead. The voice he heard was foreign, halting. Japanese? Was it connected to that boy? ”Yeah. I knew him.”

”It says here there is nobody on the hospitals that looks like him, and no ran... ransom.”

”Ransom. That means they ask for money. Kidnappers.”

”You think he was kidnapped?” She looked up at him with large, worried eyes. ”By the gangsters?”

”I don't know. Maybe.” Having a possible connection with a name was something, he supposed, even if said connection was currently missing.

”Do you want to see if I can find an email for his family?”

He thought about that. It was tempting, definitely, but the disappearance made him wary. ”Better not. In case something really has happened to the guy.”

”The gangsters could come for you.”

”Yeah. Maybe. What about the next one?”

”Nothing for Kerbie Plaza.”

”Try some different spellings for that as well.”

She kept typing, and finally nodded. ”Kirby Plaza, New York.” She showed him an image of a square with a big red sculpture in the middle. It gave him an unsettling feeling, not quite bad, but definitely not good.

”Okay,” he said, fighting the urge to rub his arms. ”Probably been there at some point. Next.”

”You don't want me to keep...”

”No. Next.”

”Simon Montgomery.” She wrote the name in, then furrowed her brow at the results. ”Nothing definite this time. Some market guy in England?”

”I don't think so.”

”Photographer?” She showed some photos of every sort of thing except the guy himself.

He shook his head. ”Nothing else?”

”A person in a TV show.”

”What TV show?”

”The Mummy. Animated.”

”Probably not, no.”

Trouble was, Simon Montgomery, whoever he was, was important to him, he was sure of it. They kept searching pages full of odd mentions, none of which seemed very promising and some of which weren't even from the recent century. Finally, he had to admit defeat and ask her to check for Silar instead.

”Clock,” she said after a few failed spelling attempts.

”What?”

”Sylar. It's a clock. Look.” She showed him pictures of clocks, watches, all of the brand Sylar.

”That makes no sense. Why would I remember the name of some clock?”

”It's a expensive clock. Maybe you had one, before.”

”Right.” He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ”I can't remember my wife, or my children, but I remember my watch.”

”Sometimes it's like that,” she said softly.

”And I guess you're the expert?”

”A little. I work with dement people.”

”You do, huh?” Yet another reminder that things could have been worse, he supposed. He leaned his head in his hands and thought for a while. ”So what have we got? A watch I may have worn, a plaza I may have been to, and a Japanese kid who seems to have vanished into thin air.”

”What else is there on the sheet?”

He handed it over. ”Peter.”

She gave him a sympathetic grimace that showed that she was as aware as he was of how impossible it was to follow that lead. ”I am sorry.”

”Damn it, Peter,” he muttered. ”Why couldn't you have a last name?”

* * *

He actually slept well that night, and woke up at a reasonable hour. The day that followed was uneventful and a bit boring – he really needed to look into getting a job. Lounging about the apartment watching daytime television was torture after a while, and in any case, he couldn't live off the Mansours forever.

Still. No memories, no surprises. Not until the next night.

He dreamed of Kirby Plaza, though from a different angle than the one he'd seen in the Internet picture. Instead of standing below the sculpture, he was soaring high above it, seeing groups of people gathered below. And in the centre, a glowing figure, someone he had to reach in time. He could feel his heart pounding and the bitter taste of urgency in his mouth.

A blonde girl raised a gun. In the dream he knew exactly who she was, though he couldn't articulate it. The gun, the glow, one of those things was going to go off, and either option was a disaster he couldn't let happen.

It was down to him. He had to make it right. He swept down, bracing himself...

...and the blonde screamed, loudly and shrilly.

He woke up with a dropping sensation, followed by a thud that jolted through his body. The change was dizzying, as was the shift in perspective from upright to lying down.

The plaza had been replaced with a small, dark room, and the woman standing in the doorway screaming her lungs out was most definitely not a blonde.

”Aisha?” he asked, scrambling to sit up. ”What's wrong?”

She stopped screaming to point an accusing finger at him. ”You flied!”

”What? Of course not! What are you talking about?” Even as he started protesting, he knew instinctively that what she said was true; he _had_ been flying, and it wasn't the first time. Kirby Plaza was more than just a dream, it was a memory, just like his memory of shooting through the sky before Qais found him.

The other Mansours came rushing in, which was hardly surprising – anyone who could sleep through that racket had to be either drugged, deaf, or dead. Adil and Zaynab came first, then Rim, and after Aisha had already started shouting excitedly to the rest of her family, Qais, rubbing his eyes.

”Han flög!” Aisha said. ”En halv jävla meter ovanför sängen, jag svär...”

He watched Aisha point at him and measure a distance closer to the ceiling than any sleeping man should conceivably be. If he was to manage any form of damage control, he'd better start right away.

”Will somebody talk to me?” he asked, annoyed. ”Please?”

Aisha turned back and repeated what she had clearly been saying all along. ”You flied!”

”Flew,” Rim muttered.

”Shut up!”

Despite his predicament, he felt a pang of sympathy for Aisha – Rim's nitpicking was without a doubt ill-chosen.

”It's late,” he said. ”Or early. In any case, you're obviously still tired, and your mind is playing tricks on you. Let's just calm down and be rational. People can't fly.”

He noticed Qais' expression grow more stricken with every word, and cursed his bad luck. ”Don't you even start!”

Qais just stared at him wide-eyed for a second, and then his face softened in a smile. ”If you stop lying, I won't have to.”

Everyone grew quiet. He sat down heavily on the bed, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get out of this.

”You can really fly?” Rim asked in a very small voice.

He gave a self-conscious shrug. ”Apparently.”

”How?” Qais asked.

”I don't know. How do you do what you do?”

”You can fly,” Adil repeated, with both wonder and disbelief evident in those few words.

”Show them,” Aisha said softly.

His stomach churned at the idea of flying in front of all these people. What choice did he have, though? He couldn't talk his way out of this, and they were blocking the only exit. For that matter, running wouldn't exactly do him any good.

He took a deep breath and let go, like opening a hand you'd held clenched for much too long. A bit awkward, slow, but at the same time perfectly natural.

The room was small, which meant he couldn't stretch out the way he might want, the way he knew that he _could_, now that he thought about it, but he let his body drift a few inches up, rejoicing in the sensation and trying really hard not to think about the people staring.

Which they did, and he could only ignore that for a minute before forcing himself back onto the floor.

Qais mumbled something that had his mother swat him lightly at the back of his head.

”Are you an angel?” Rim asked.

”No.” At least no one was screaming anymore. Being mistaken for an angel was quite acceptable in comparison.

”A djinn?”

”What? No.”

”Get off it, Rim, he's not a djinn,” Qais said.

”You said his clothes were burned.”

”Why would a djinn burn his own clothes?”

She turned back to him, excited. ”Were you fighting a djinn? Is that is?”

”I wasn't fighting anyone!” he protested. ”I'm not an angel, or a djinn, or anything like that.”

”Then what are you?” Aisha asked.

”I don't know.”

Everyone was quiet for a while. Zaynab pulled her dressing gown closer around her body. Rim bit her lip, as if she was holding back something she wanted to say.

Finally, Adil reached out and pulled a book from the pile on the desk. He held it up. ”Activating Evolution.”

He took a deep, shivering breath. ”I was wondering why I picked up that book.”

”This – is you.”

”I guess so, yes.”

”And Qais.”

He looked at Qais thoughtfully. Five minutes ago, he had cursed the man's gift for lie detecting. Now it felt like the one thing in this mess that was on his side. ”Yeah.”

”Me?” Qais seemed taken aback. ”I'm good at spotting liars. That's hardly like flying.”

”_Good_ at spotting liars?” Rim echoed.

”She's right,” Aisha said. ”Good doesn't even cover it.”

Adil was watching him intently and patiently, still holding up the book. ”This says what you are?”

”I don't know. I haven't read it yet.”

It sounded pathetic, and the reason, which he didn't share, was even more so. He'd been afraid to read it, getting ill with unease every time he picked it up.

Adil just nodded, though, and calmly stating, ”I suppose it is time to read it now - for us, as well,” kissed Qais on the top of the head.

In a strange way, he felt that the kiss encompassed him too, and so he relaxed his tense shoulders and dared to smile.


	5. What Country, Friends, Is This? Interlude 2 and Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Interlude 2: Peter and Noah**

**Interlude 2: Peter and Noah**

Peter woke up, and for the first time in days it wasn't from a nightmare. On the contrary, he found himself laughing with relief, a relief he couldn't quite place in his waking state.

”Nathan?” he said out loud, but no one answered.

He got out of bed and started rummaging through the drawers, looking for his address book. Since the explosion, he had only talked to Claire once. After his appearance on television, standing behind his mother as she explained to the public that Nathan had suddenly taken ill, he had gotten a phone call. It started with a breathless ”Thank God!” and ended with her urging him to take her number, in case of emergencies if nothing else. The Bennets still weren't safe, that much he'd been able to tell, and he'd never called her back. Had even written her as ”Jennifer” in the book.

He found the number and dialled it on his cell phone – he wouldn't put it beyond his mom to listen in to the regular phone. It rang for a long time, and then cut to voice mail. He turned off the phone, waited a few minutes, then tried again.

”Hello?”

He blinked at first at the sound of a male voice, and then his mind made the connection. ”Noah? It's Peter.”

”What's wrong?”

”Nothing. I mean, I don't think anything's wrong, as such, I just... is Claire awake?”

A pause. He gripped the phone hard.

”You shouldn't call here.”

”I know. I'm sorry. It's kind of important.”

”We've had a rough day, I don't like to wake her, but if it's urgent...”

”It's not, well, it's kind of something I need to talk about.”

”Peter.” Noah's voice sounded calm and reasonable. ”If you tell me what this is about, I can wake her up if need be, or give her a message.”

”Do you think Nathan might be alive?” Peter blurted out before the other man had even finished speaking.

The pause this time lasted so long Peter feared Noah had hung up on him. Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore and gritted out, ”Hello?”

”Have you heard something?”

”No. Not heard, as such. I had this dream. Thing is, my dreams have come true before. But when I... when it happened, he was so close. I couldn't make him let go early enough, he was still really close, and afterwards I couldn't find him anywhere.”

”You figured he'd died.”

”At first, yeah. This dream was really vivid. But if he's alive, why hasn't he called?”

”Even if he is alive, he could be injured.”

Peter was very grateful that Noah didn't use the word ”dying”, though the implication was clear in his voice. He'd seen pictures of radiation victims, same as anyone else, and he fought the image in his head for all he was worth.

”He didn't feel injured, though, in my dream. Which is impossible, right? That explosion would have taken out half of the city, and he wasn't more than a hundred yards away, max.” If only he could have kept the power in for another minute, chances were Nathan could have made it home free, but the struggle of making him let go in the first place had been so exhausting that Peter had lost control almost instantly.

”How fast was he flying?”

”What?” he asked, surprised. ”I don't know. Fast.”

”Supersonic?”

”I guess.”

”It shouldn't be humanly possible, flying that fast. The speed would tear the flesh straight off the bones. Not to mention what the pressure would do to the internal organs.”

”Okay, I get the picture,” Peter interrupted, not particularly wanting to hear more details on the subject. ”So how come he can do it? He doesn't heal the way Claire and I do.”

”No, but Thom... theoretically speaking, a human being flying at supersonic speed would have some sort of insulation to protect them during flight. Something that only kicked in during those times.”

”Like a force field?”

”In that general area, yes.”

Peter considered this information. He'd never heard Nathan mention a force field, but then, getting Nathan to talk about his ability at all was like pulling teeth with tweezers. ”So he could be alive.”

”Theoretically.”

”Then why haven't we heard from him?”

”I don't know. Seems to me the person you really need to talk to is Molly Walker.”

”Who?”

”Molly Walker. She tracks people. You tell her the person, and she finds them. Anywhere across the world. Hell of a power in the wrong hands.”

”Is hers the wrong hands?”

”She's just a kid. Dr. Suresh is taking care of her at the moment. He's trustworthy enough. Do you have his number?”

”I do, yeah. She can find anyone?”

”Anyone, anywhere. If Nathan is alive, she'll find him.”

”And if he's not?” Peter asked, dreading the answer.

”Then I guess you'll find that out too.”

Peter swallowed hard. This girl, this child could find his brother. Or not, which would mean that at least he knew for certain. Knowing for certain had to be better, didn't it? Did it?

”Peter?”

”Yeah,” he said automatically.

”Wait a few hours before you call them, okay?”

”Yeah, sure.”

”She's been sick. From what I understand, her powers are still on and off, so if she can't tell you right away, you'll just have to be patient.”

”Okay, I will. Thanks.”

”You're welcome. I'll tell Claire you called.”

”Mm.” Hanging up, he felt stunned, half wanting to call Dr. Suresh right away even though he'd said he'd wait. The other half said, _Do you really want some child to tell you cold that your brother is dead?_

He took off his watch, lay it on the table next to him where he could keep an eye on it, and sat back, waiting for morning.

* * *

  
**Chapter 5**

He was surprised to see Qais in the kitchen washing dishes, since he'd been under the impression that the kid was still at that long work trip. ”Hey. You're back.”

”Yes, this morning. I will leave again in a couple of hours.” Qais took his hands out of the soapy water and threw over a towel. ”Help me, please?”

He caught the towel and started drying, by now at home enough with the cupboards to put at least half of the dishes and utensils in their place without having to ask where that was.

”Can I keep the book a while?” asked Qais. ”I'm not finished yet.”

It took him a moment to realize what book Qais was talking about, but then he raised his eyebrows. ”Oh, so you're the one who has the book. I was wondering what had happened to it.”

”Yes. I had it with me.” Qais's ears took on a reddish hue. ”I thought you knew. I borrowed it from Rim.”

Rim hadn't bothered to borrow it in the first place, but he didn't say that. After all, he hadn't been reading it, just kept it on the nightstand wanting to read it without ever quite taking the step.

”Is it any good?” he asked instead.

”It's boring. Or it would be, if it wasn't about us.”

He slowly wiped the last few drops of water from a pitcher. ”So. What does it say? About us?”

”It says there are many others like us. Maybe hundreds and thousands. They're all different, and all different from each other too. Some might have the same abilities, but there are so many...” Qais's voice was shivering with excitement. ”To heal when you're hurt. To read minds. To move from one place to another without being in the place between.” He held up his hands, moving them apart, to show what he meant.

”Teleportation,” he filled in, feeling odd saying that. He knew for certain that teleportation shouldn't be possible – but he also knew for certain that it was. The simultaneous certainty of those two rivalling facts made him queasy.

”Yes. That's what it said. It's genetic. Our brains have mutated, to work different. It can happen to many in the same family.” Qais frowned. ”Do you think it will happen to my family?”

He shrugged. How was he to know? To avoid the question, he held up a pair of salad tongs and asked, ”Where do you keep these?”

”Down there. The things we can do will be different, even in the same family. The author believes – it's a theory – that we have needs, deep down, to do one special thing, and we will.” At this, Qais made a grimace of humorous annoyance. ”I would have liked something better, in that case.”

”You don't have a deep need to tell lies from truths?” he asked sarcastically.

”I'm a train steward,” Qais said with a smile. ”Of course I do. People don't buy their tickets every day. Now I am so good they want me to be a train master. This is good for me, but it is not very cool.”

”Hm,” he grunted. Cool or not, there were things to be said for an ability that could be used without danger of anyone finding out about it.

”And you? Do you need to fly?”

He thought of soaring high above the ground, leaving the streets and the buildings far behind. Travelling across the ocean at a speed even a plane couldn't manage, so that the water turned into a glittering blue blur below.

”I need to get my life back on track,” he said. ”Find a job, get my memories back, and be normal.”

Qais watched him with so much sympathy and understanding it gave him the jitters. ”If you need to fly, we can ask Dad to drive you somewhere where you can do it and no one will see you.”

The desire ached in his bones, begging him to take off, lift his body far up and let it do what it was meant to do.

”Sure,” he said, using all his energy to sound dispassionate.

”And if you want a job, you can talk to Rim.”

”Rim?” A high-school kid definitely wouldn't have been his first choice as a career contact.

”Yes. She can ask at the restaurant. We have had guests who have worked there before.”

”Illegal immigrants?”

Qais smiled. ”Don't throw stones in a glass house.”

”I'm not. I'm just asking. That's what they were, right?”

”Yes.”

”What happens to them? I mean, you don't have any living here now.”

”Except you,” Qais pointed out again. ”Some are found and sent home. Some complain...”

”Complain?”

”So they get to stay.”

”Appeal.” Saying the word was like finding an old receipt in your pocket, the same faint, disinterested recognition.

”Appeal. Yes. And some move somewhere else.”

”How many have there been?”

Qais shrugged. ”Lots. You're the third this year. The third case. The first was a family. Children everywhere.” He rolled his eyes. ”If we do that again, I will move out.”

”You don't like kids?”

”Yes, I like kids, but not seven or eight living here. Ugh.”

He tried to imagine seven or eight kids, with their parents, with the Mansours, all in this four-bedroom apartment. Well, he could certainly see Qais's point.

”Who was the other one?”

”A woman. But she wasn't illegal, she was divorced. She works at the restaurant some nights, perhaps you will see her there.”

”I haven't even agreed to work there yet,” he protested.

”I thought you said you wanted a job.”

”I do, but I can't really see myself as a waiter.”

Qais gave him an odd look. ”Good, because you won't be one. They like waiters who speak Swedish.”

”So what job will I get?” he asked, figuring out the answer while he was still talking.

Qais just smiled and handed him another dish to dry. As he took it, it suddenly seemed to grow bigger, while everything else faded away. He had to lean on the bench for balance, feeling seasick.

”Are you okay?” Qais asked.

”Yeah, I'm fine,” he replied automatically. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, but it left him shaken. What the_hell_...?

* * *

In the end, he didn't seem to have much choice. All the jobs he could think of required working skills, or knowledge of the primary language, or both. Staying in all day wasn't an option – even with the books, TV and occasional household chore, what it amounted to was pretty much playing hide-and-seek with his memories. At least if he washed someone else's dirty dishes for a change, he'd get to meet people.

Rim didn't seem the least bit surprised when he asked her, and in fact brought him over that very same night. The restaurant had a fair amount of customers and a sign on the window that declared in English and Swedish that tthey also hosted a nightclub twice a week. Inside, there were light wooden tables and bright bowl-shaped ceiling lamps. Fresh and minimalist, but the waiters wore plain clothes, and the discrepancy between the food on people's tables and the price for today's special made him frown until he remembered the worth of a Swedish krona.

Rim went up to the bar and started talking to the people behind it, and after a moment, she waved for him to follow her into the kitchen.

It was notably less bright and tidy than the dining area had been, and also so small it was hard to move without bumping into someone – especially the waiters, who were rushing in and out very quickly despite the hot contents of the plates they were carrying.

Rim moved with practiced ease and dragged him along to a tall man who was deep in conversation with a guy in an apron.

”Marcus!” she said, and the man turned around, giving them a quick frown.

After a week of meeting mostly Arabs, it felt strange to see someone so blond. Marcus's slicked-back hair was almost white, and his eyes were a washed-out blue that didn't fit the intensity of the gaze with which he scrutinized them. His suit was spotless and stylish, but cheaper than it looked at first glance, and he gave off an air that suggested this was true about much in his life.

Rim started speaking very quickly, and while she did, Marcus kept watching him in a way that made him want to punch the guy in the face, or take a thorough bath, or both.

”So,” Marcus said when Rim paused, ”Kalle Mohammad, was it?”

”That's right.” It struck him that the name was perfectly ridiculous, and that they really should have changed it – but it was too late now, and Marcus didn't seem to care one way or another.

”Do you speak Swedish?”

”Not really. Just a few phrases.”

”Do you have any experience?”

He shook his head and offered a half-smile. ”I'm afraid not.”

”What did you do before?”

They hadn't included profession in their backstory, but he answered, ”I was a salesman,” without any hesitation. That was vague enough to be credible both for his personality and for the job in question.

Marcus paused, gave him a last, quick brush-over with those eyes, and then suddenly smiled, holding out his hand.

”Nice to meet you.”

He found himself forced to give a radiant smile in return and offer his own hand, and he was surprised when Marcus turned it over and – was he inspecting the nails? Seeing that, he had to fight an urge to snatch his hand back.

”Busboy,” Marcus said after a moment's pause, and now he seemed to have lost all interest in them. ”Learn some more Swedish and we'll see what else. Rim, fill him in.” With that, he returned his attention to the chef.

”Busboy,” Rim said slowly. ”Huh. All right, then, come with me.”

She jerked her head at him, and they made their way through the crowd back to the dining area.

”I didn't like him,” he said under his breath as soon as they were out of hearing distance.

”He liked you.” She sounded less than pleased about the fact. ”You get to work in _here_.”

”And that's good, is it?”

”You're new and you don't even speak Swedish. It's very good.” She shook her head. ”I should have known. That accent, and the way you act – you may look like one of us, but you're still just like him.”

His head whipped around. ”I am_what_?”

”Like him. You know. Fancy, slick people with too-wide smiles.” She smirked, clearly teasing him, but he still felt offended.

”Trust me, we're not alike.”

”You're much _nicer_, of course.”

”That's not what I meant.” What he did mean was that Marcus was someone he should have been able to crush completely without a moment's thought. But that didn't seem like the kind of thing you could tell an impressionable kid, and in any case it was a moot point. Whatever he had been before, he no longer had the upper hand.

The chores Rim showed him were simple enough – set up the tables before a customer arrived, clean them off afterwards, repeat ad nauseam. The members of the staff were harder to learn. Several of them introduced themselves, and he smiled and traded a few words, but he didn't think he'd be able to learn all their names. Fortunately, they all seemed to be on a first-name basis, which meant less to learn as well as his own not sounding quite so unlikely.

”Salaam Alaykum.” Yet another person coming up to him just as he left for the kitchen. This time it was a woman, a few years his senior or prematurely gray. Her nose was a bit too long and her curves, while nice, headed slightly downwards, but there was something in her gaze under thick, long eyelashes that made his smile soften as he greeted her.

”Wa alaykum Salaam.” It was one of the few phrases he had managed to learn in Arabic. ”Most people stick to 'hey'.”

”I wanted to do things right,” she said, giving him a cocky grin that revealed a row of very white teeth marred by a missing one on the left. ”My name is Rawan. Nice to meet you.”

”You too. I'm Kalle.”

”I know. Rim said that. How many hours will you work?”

”I don't know.” He added wryly, ”It wasn't really included in the negotiations.”

A beat, and then that grin was back, even wider. ”It wouldn't be, no.” She nodded towards Rim, who was noting down orders. ”Rim only work three hours. Schoolgirls need their sleep. If you work longer and you need help, you can ask me.”

She wasn't the first person trying to help him out, nor was she the first one who had flirted with him, but he still let his eyes linger. He could tell that she had been a beautiful woman once, but it was less that than her self-assured attitude that made him say warmly, ”I'd like that.”

After she had left, he looked down at his hand, at the burn mark from the wedding band. Whatever had happened to him, it had made damned sure he knew he had a wife somewhere. Maybe one he loved dearly. Still, he couldn't live his life pussyfooting around a memory he didn't even have anymore. He looked up, seeing a couple of women throwing him appreciative glances, and gave them a slight smile in return. All right, then. If the opportunity presented itself – whether with that Rawan or someone else – he wouldn't say no.


	6. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 6**

**Chapter 6**

There were downsides to the job of course. Routine, indignity, and above all coming home at 5AM on club nights only to have the phone wake you three hours later. At first he just grumbled and turned over in bed, counting on someone else to pick it up. After six or seven rings the phone went quiet, but only temporarily. A few minutes later,it started again. Finally he gave up and rolled out of bed to find one of the family's goddamned cordless phones so he could take the call.

There was one in the livingroom, for some reason hidden behind a cushion in the sofa. ”Hello?”

There was a moment's pause before a familiar female voice asked, ”Kalle?”

He frowned. ”Rim?”

”No, it is Aisha. I left my wallet home, and I'll need it, but I don't really have time to come get it, so...”

”You want me to come over?” It would have been at the bottom of any list of things he wanted to do right then, but after she had hemmed and hawed for a while he realized that she didn't trust his ability to find her wallet, take it with him on the bus, and find her at work. This irked him enough that he was wide awake and ready to leave in an instant if need be.

He was still simmering by the time he reached the retirement home, where he found Aisha on the parking spot outside helping an old woman from a wheelchair into a taxi. The woman was the first one to see him, and she lit up, tugging at Aisha's arm to make her look in his direction. Aisha looked up and gave him a wave before returning to her task. He hurried his steps to give her a hand.

”Hi,” he said, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair.

She smiled at him. ”Hey.”

The old woman turned around and beamed at him over her shoulder. ”God dag, farbror!”

”God dag,” he replied politely, looking to Aisha for a translation of the 'farbror'.

She shook her head minutely at him and started talking with the woman, still helping her into the car. The woman seemed very surprised at what she heard, but still happy to see him. Once all of the woman was in the car and out of the wheelchair, Aisha straightened up and gave a small shrug. ”I explained to her that you are a friend of mine, that you don't speak Swedish, and that she doesn't know you.”

”Oh,” he said, taking that in. Judging by the look on the woman's face, he didn't think she believed Aisha's explanation. ”Okay. The wheelchair?”

She pointed to the open trunk. ”In the back. You need to make the wheels loose by...”

He loosened the wheels and folded up the chair before she had even finished the sentence, putting all the parts in the trunk.

”Huh,” she said, staring at his work.

”I'm not a complete imbecile, you know,” he said, doing his best to keep the tone light and humorous.

”No,” she said slowly, ”and you've done this before.”

”Yeah, I...” He halted, looking down at the parts in the trunk and then back up at her. A face hovered at the edge of his inner vision, its features just a smidgeon too unclear for identification. He felt a strong sense of longing, but also something much more unpleasant. Shame? Guilt? ”Yeah, I have. Dozens of times.”

”You learn something new every day, I guess.”

”Yeah. I most definitely do.”

She laughed at that, but he felt uncomfortable, wanting to keep that half-seen face safe from the questions he feared might come. Digging into his pocket, he fished out the wallet. ”Here you go.”

”Thank you. Wait a second.”

He waited as she closed the trunk and went over to talk once more with the old woman and the driver. As the car left the parking lot, she returned to him.

”I'm sorry I made you come here, but I really need that wallet. So thank you again.”

”It was no trouble at all,” he said. It had been, but he certainly wouldn't admit any hesitance to do a favour for a young woman whose family he owed so much already.

”Thank you anyway.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder towards the house. ”I really need to work.”

”Of course.”

”I could buy you lunch to make up for it? Or... when do you start working?”

”Not until five.”

”Lunch then. If you don't want to sleep.”

”I can wake up for lunch.”

”Okay.” She had the sweetest smile. When she smiled, he could very nearly see the face of the woman in his head. ”I'll see you.”

He watched her leave, and then went back to the bus stop. God. Half an hour's ride for a five minute chat, and as much as he looked forward to going back to bed, he looked forward to lunch more. The things he was prepared to do to get hold of another memory.

* * *

Aisha chose an Indian restaurant with a lunch buffet. The way he saw it, this was just one step up from fast food, but the food smelled nice and the prices were more than reasonable.

”I don't suppose it's any use asking for the wine list,” he said as they sat down.

She did a double take. ”You could. They might have one.”

The way she stared at him, he had a feeling he had made a horrible gaffe, and so he asked, ”What?”

”It seems that Qais and Rim were wrong. You're not muslim. Or,” she amended with a smile, ”you're a bad muslim.”

The logic seemed clear to her, but it definitely wasn't to him, and he raised his eyebrows.

”Wine is haram.”

”Forbidden.”

”Yes.”

”I guess I won't have any, then.”

”You can if you want to. My Christian friends do, sometimes. I don't mind.”

”No.” Drinking alcohol when the lady didn't was out of the question. ”I'll just have what you're having.”

”Sprite, then.”

”Sprite. Okay.”

Watching her get the Sprites put him in an awkward mood. He'd been thinking of the two of them as a man and a woman, out for lunch together. Not a date, perhaps, but the way her smile evoked that almost-memory of another face, and the way she moved her lithe body, both added a certain spice, a heightened awareness to the situation. But seeing her with sodas made her seem so young, and he was reminded that he was closer to her father's generation than to hers. How much older was she than the other two, anyway? She had to be closer to 25 than to 30. When he got his drivers license, she was still in diapers. On the other hand, sodas or not she definitely wasn't a child, and he had no reason to feel guilty.

”I'm curious,” she said when she returned. ”If you had a wine list, what would you drink?”

”I'm fine, really.”

”Yes, but if you said, 'Waiter! Bring me a good...' what? What would you choose?”

He looked down on his plate and thought about it. ”For this? Chardonnay, maybe.”

She grinned widely at that, and oh, he could see them now, the grayish-green eyes behind her large brown ones, but somehow even that seemed less important than the now of having a meal with an attractive young woman and making her smile.

”You really are from another world.”

”How do you figure?”

She spread her hands to encompass the whole restaurant. ”I think even the people in here who drink can't tell the difference between Chardonnay and a... what's the opposite of Chardonnay?”

”Sprite comes pretty close.”

She laughed. It was a good laugh, deeper than her speaking voice would suggest, and appealing enough to make him grip his glass harder with anticipation.

”You're right, though,” he said. ”It feels like a different world. I don't know how much of it is the amnesia and how much is my previous life being... different. It seems the more I find out, the stranger things get.”

”If it makes you feel better, a lot of people feel out of place in this town. In a way, you fit right in.”

”Do you feel out of place?”

She chewed her Tandoori chicken slowly as she thought. ”No,” she said at last. ”Not anymore. I used to, back in school. Dad still does.”

”Really?”

”Yeah. It's odd, it should be Mom. She teached advanced maths, and now she works in a shop. But she has this...” Aisha closed her hand together to a ball and breathed softly into them, holding them still for a moment as if cherishing the air inside. ”Inside her. It keeps her going. Dad was always very strong, very physical, and he wanted many children. It was hard for him to be hurt like that, on top of everything else.”

”He lost a piece of himself,” he said, feeling a new affinity with the man. He missed his memories something fierce, but in a way, there were two pieces missing, because beyond that was the desire of his body to leave the ground, so very strong now that he knew the possibility existed. Maybe he should do what Qais had suggested and ask Adil to drive him to some remote location where he could soar freely, but now that seemed a cruel thing to ask. ”Do you think it would upset him if I asked him to take me somewhere I could...” He raised his hand vertically from the table and let it hover in the air.

She stared at him in incomprehension for a second, and then she smiled. ”No. That's one thing he could never do. None of us could. You should ask him. Use what was given you.”

The idea was tempting. He'd never do it where there were people, of course, but he'd been around long enough to know you didn't have to drive far to get to the countryside, with fields and forests and all sorts of places that wouldn't have people around, not in November when all the tourists had long since returned home.

”I never apologized,” she said, fiddling with her napkin, though her eyes were steady on him. ”For screaming like that.”

”That's okay.”

”No, it's not. I'm sorry I did. It's just, I went in looking for a pair of pants, and there you were.” She mimicked his earlier hovering gesture. ”I didn't expect a miracle.”

That took him by surprise, and he gave a half-hearted chuckle. ”I wouldn't call it a miracle.”

”It is, though. It's a good thing.”

Her solemnity was touching as well as enticing, and he leaned in, taking her hand. ”It's a quirk. You guys, you're the good thing.”

She pressed his hand, and there was a glint in her eyes that made him lean in even further – but then she pulled back, an annoyed wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. The word escaping her lips was one he had come to recognize as a Swedish curse.

He turned around, and saw Qais making his way between the tables. His face sported a similar wrinkle to his sister's, though much deeper.

”What are you doing with him?” Qais demanded as he reached their table.

”I don't believe this.” Aisha pulled back her hand and rose from her chair. ”Are you checking up on us?”

”Were you going to kiss him?”

”You are! You are checking up on us!”

”Listen...” His attempt to intervene went unheard as the siblings raised their voices.

”I got your phone message, went to your work. They said you were here. They didn't say you were on a date with a married man.”

”It's not a date, and it's not your business!”

After that, they switched language and he could no longer follow the discussion, which was getting so loud people at other tables stopped eating and just stared at them. He could see a waiter heading their way and decided to cut things short. He stood up, placing himself between the two of them with his hands raised.

”We were just having lunch. That's all. There's nothing going on, I swear.”

Qais' muttered something under his breath and then raised his chin, eyes narrowed. ”You can't lie to me. Don't you know that by now?”

Aisha grabbed her jacket, saying a few more choice phrases to her brother as she passed him by. Qais made a move as if to follow her, but then remained where he was after all, still glaring.

He wondered if he should follow her himself, but decided against it. It would probably do more harm than good, and at the end of the day, he still needed to be able to come home to their family without feeling like an intruder.

”She was telling the truth,” he told Qais instead. ”It's not a date, and there's nothing going on.”

”She was telling the truth,” Qais agreed. ”You're not. Stay away from her.”

”Okay. Getting a tad overdramatic here.”

”Maybe you're used to picking up girls who don't care that you're married. But not her.”

”Don't you think she's old enough to make up her own mind?”

”She's a virgin. And she'll stay that way.”

He opened his mouth to point out how ludicruous the notion was that Qais somehow had to defend his big sister from the evils of men, but the word 'virgin' bore its way into his head.

It wasn't true, was it? Gorgeous women her age weren't virgins – but she didn't drink alcohol, and she hadn't been flirting with him, not the way some of the women at work flirted with him. What was that word she had used about the wine, haram? He supposed that went for extramarital sex as well, especially with married men, even if it felt both strange and unfair to count himself in that category. He didn't even remember his wife, for crying out loud. Though he had to admit, his attention today had been as much on the woman in his mind as the woman before him, and he had wanted both of them.

Knowing that he couldn't bullshit the kid, he stuck to telling the bit of truth that would be easiest for the guy to take: ”I would never have a woman do anything that she wasn't willing or ready to do.”

”That's not the point.”

He gave him his coldest smile. Gratitude was one thing, but he wasn't about to let himself get steamrolled by some kid, no matter how much he owed him. ”As far as I'm concerned, that's the only point. You want reassurances beyond that, I suggest you take it up with your sister.”

Qais's glare intensified, and in return he let his own relax, showing that he had no intention to enter some kind of pissing contest. He had every right to live his life the way he chose, and that was all there was to it.

Finally Qais broke eye contact and muttered, ”You bet I will,” before leaving the restaurant in a huff.

He sat back down and calmly returned to his meal. For a 70 kronor all-you-can-eat, it was pretty good, and besides, he was still hungry.

* * *

Because of their work hours, it wasn't until the next evening that he had a chance to talk to Aisha again.

”Can we go for a walk?” he asked her when she returned home. When she seemed to hesitate, he added, ”Or is that improper?”

She laughed and sat down to kick off her shoes. ”It's not improper, but I have stood up all day. Can't we talk here, or in my room?”

”Your room would work.”

Her room was his room now, and that felt right – home for both of them and in a sense neutral territory. He sat down on the bed and leaned his chin against his clasped hands. ”If I did anything yesterday that made you uncomfortable, or if I went too far in any way...”

”No, no, no,” she protested, swatting the idea away like a fly. ”Qais got an attack of testosterone poison. You don't have to listen to him.”

”I'm glad to hear that.” He watched her in silence for a while. Today her features didn't seem as similar to the woman in his mind, and it was more obvious to him how very young she was, but even so, a glimmer of his interest remained. He sighed deeply and asked, ”Qais told me that you have never actually been with a man before. Is that true?”

A faint blush spread over her face and ears, and she raised her chin in proud defiance. ”It's true.”

”You could have warned me.”

”I didn't know you needed warning.”

There was a finality to her words that told him clear as day how this was going to end, and he accepted it, but they still needed to have this conversation, come to the inevitable agreement.

”You're right,” he replied cautiously. ”It's none of my business.”

”We're not having sex, ever,” she blurted out.

So much for caution. He smiled, grateful that at they were discussing this behind closed doors. ”Because I'm married,” he agreed.

”Because we're not.”

”Oh.” Not only a virgin, then, but a dedicated virgin. It made him wonder if Qais had just been repeating what their parents would have said, had they been present. ”I see.”

”And we wouldn't want to, either,” she said. ”At least I wouldn't.”

”Well, that's a position I respect, of course.”

She watched him for a while, and then made an annoyed grimace that was utterly like her sister. ”Oh, stop. Don't make me the bad guy. You're not in love. I'm a single woman and we live in the same flat. Don't pretend there is anything else.”

”When you smile, you look...” He halted, knowing that the truth was anything but a compliment.

”What?” Her face softened. ”Am I pretty when I smile?”

”Yes.” It was true, after all, even if it wasn't the point.

”Thank you. That's nice to hear.”

He couldn't be sure, but judging by the sound of her voice and the look in her face he was willing to bet that she felt the attraction too. If it hadn't been for her moral stand on these things he might have had a pretty good chance. ”I hope this won't cause any trouble with your family.”

”This has nothing to do with my family. I want to not have sex unless I'm married. That's all me, not them. How do you think Qais found you?”

That was so out of the blue he was taken off guard. ”I beg your pardon?”

”He works at the trains. The bus goes from the train station. Why was he in West Harbour six o'clock on the morning?”

The question had never even occurred to him, and he frowned, waiting for an answer.

”Felicia lives there. His Swedish girlfriend. Maybe he has listened to his stupid friends long enough to think there are different rules for him and me, but that's not what Mom and Dad think. I can have a boyfriend if I want, but I don't. I'm fine on my own.” Her mouth twitched. ”Even if it's hard to believe for a man who can't go without for three weeks.”

He could have been offended, but felt more amused. ”Oh, I can go without.”

”I don't think you'll have to. Rim says they love you at the restaurant.”

”Good to know.” He stood up to leave with the certain knowledge that they had an understanding and that nothing they said beyond this point would make a difference one way or another. And he was certainly not going to discuss whether or not he'd be looking for female company elsewhere now that he had been rejected at home. He did have _some_ notion of chivalry.


	7. What Country, Friends, Is This? Interlude 3 and Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Interlude 3: Peter, Molly and Mohinder**

**Interlude 3: Peter, Molly and Mohinder**

Peter waited weeks to get the call back from Mohinder. Even so, once that call came, it only took him 20 minutes to be standing by Mohinder's door, knocking like his life depended on it. It was possible he'd flown part of the way; everything was a haze except the certainty that he had to find his brother.

It seemed an unreasonably long time before Mohinder opened the door and ushered him inside. ”She's in the kitchen.”

Peter hurried into the kitchen, ready to ask right away about his brother's whereabouts, but the sight of Molly stopped him – she looked so thin and weak that he immediately sat down and asked, ”Are you all right?

”I'm feeling much better, thanks,” she said with a pale-lipped smile. He'd seen that heartbreakingly brave attitude in far too many dying children to take her word for it, but at a closer look, the hint of color in her cheeks and the calm strength in her shadowed eyes told him that she was telling the truth. She _was_ improving, just improving from a situation far more severe than he'd realized.

There was a world map lying in front of her, and he touched the edge of it fearfully. ”Can you find him?”

”It's kind of hard.” She drew a small circle on the map with her finger. ”He's definitely around here.”

Peter leaned forward, seeing that she was pointing at an area in Northern Europe – the lower half of Sweden, Denmark, and the very north of Germany. ”So he's alive.” He had trouble keeping his voice steady, and his smile was so wide it hurt.

”Yes, but he's... vague.”

”Vague?”

”I don't know how else to describe it. It's like he's there but he's not there. I'm sorry.”

”She's been trying for half an hour straight,” Mohinder said from the door. There was a touch of warning in his voice.”I thought you had a right to know your brother is alive.”

”Yeah. Thanks.” Peter lay his hand on Molly's, his desire to find Nathan battling his instinct to take it easy on a sick child. ”Hey, Molly, is it okay if I help out? See if we can find him together?”

She nodded several times very quickly, and he thought of Nathan, the worry for his family that he tried to hide with that infuriating, condescending smile, the way he moved, the way he talked. He thought of that very last moment, how he had forced Nathan to let go. The panic in his brother's face before it disappeared into the distance, that split second before everything went white.

Their hands moved together over the paper, and he was reminded of those stupid Ouija board games. For a moment, he could see Nathan's face clear as day, shaggier than he'd ever seen it in life, but _there_ \- and then the image slid away and all he had was this general notion of Nathan-ness, so tangled up with other things that he couldn't make head or tail of it.

He looked down on his map. His and Molly's fingers were trying to squeeze into the same small area at the south of Sweden. Molly grabbed a pushpin from a little box at the end of the table, and held it over the point, waiting for something.

”Not getting any closer?” Peter asked.

Molly pursed her lips hard, and then asked Mohinder, ”Do you have a bigger map?”

”I'm afraid not.”

”Google Earth?” Peter suggested.

”Good idea.”

They downloaded Google Earth onto the laptop, and spent some time trying to find Nathan that way, but the scattered feeling remained. The most they could determine was that every zoom led to the same Swedish peninsula.

”Maybe it's the powers,” Peter said. ”If you're still sick, and I leach off you, maybe I can't use them to their full extent either.”

”But I feel _fine_,” Molly said impatiently.

Peter noticed that her hands were shaking a bit, and he forced himself to say, ”Let's take a break.”

”No, I can do it, I know I can.”

”Molly,” Mohinder said, ”maybe you should try to find someone else. Someone simpler. That way we'll know if it's the power, or...”

He didn't finish the sentence, for which Peter was grateful. The possibilities running through his head were bad enough.

They managed to find two of Molly's classmates without problem, as well as Claire - though he felt a twinge of guilty conscience asking for that one – the President, the Pope, and in a final attempt, a movie star called Yukta Mukhi.

”She's pretty,” Molly said, clicking back to the pictures on the screen once they'd pinpointed the girl on the satellite image. ”Do you know her?”

”No,” Mohinder said. ”She's just a movie star. I think she's pretty too.”

”You've got good taste,” Molly said matter-of-factly.

Mohinder laughed. It made his face brighten up in a way Peter found very soothing. It had been almost an hour, and they still were no closer to finding Nathan. He was starting to feel extremely tired.

”Want to give it another go?” he asked, trying to sound chipper.

Molly gave him a glance that indicated she found this idea as futile as he secretly did.

”Molly,” Mohinder said, ”can you find Officer Parkman?”

”But I know where Officer Parkman is,” she said, confounded. ”He's in the hospital.” She swallowed, and told Peter, ”He hasn't woken up yet.”

Peter threw Mohinder a glance. He'd been in touch with the hospital, and he knew there was a very real risk Parkman would never wake up at all.

”Can you try to find him anyway?” Mohinder asked softly.

Peter watched Molly take the mouse. He knew he should be helping her out, but he didn't have the stomach for it – he had a suspicion he knew what Mohinder was getting at.

Molly's clicks were slower than before, leading her down to the state of New York and then the city. When the pattern of streets and avenues became visible, she stopped and bit her lip. There were tears in her eyes, but they didn't fall. ”It's similar, but it's not the same. Officer Parkman is very faint. Your brother is stronger, but it's like he's not all there.”

”Yeah,” Peter said, feeling even more tired than before. He looked up at Mohinder. ”He's injured, isn't he?”

”There seems to be a very real possibility of that, yes. I'm sorry.”

Peter nodded, and then gave Molly a trembling smile. ”Want to go to Sweden?”

Molly's eyes widened, but she said neither yes or no, just stared at Peter dumbfounded.

”That is absolutely out of the question!” Mohinder protested.

”You can come too.”

”She's ill. I'm not dragging her halfway around the world, and neither are you.”

”I need her.”

”No you don't. You have her power, you can call on it like you did today.”

”Well, I need someone. If Nathan is alive, don't you want to know how he survived?”

Mohinder crossed his arms. ”I can wait until after you both come back.”

”I _could_ go,” Molly suggested. ”I'm better now.”

”I won't let you,” Mohinder said, scowling at her. ”I'm responsible for you now, and it's much too risky.”

”Please,” Peter begged. ”I can't do this alone.”

”So don't. There has to be someone you can trust.”

”Who? Everyone I trusted is gone, or dead, or...” He didn't have words for the ways his mother had proven unsuitable to confide in.

Molly's expression suddenly brightened. ”Maybe you can find someone here,” she said, nodding towards the screen.

It was a naïve suggestion, but it gave him pause. ”I can do that?”

”You can try.”

She pushed the mouse over in his direction, and he took it, phrasing a wish as if he was about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake: _Let me find someone to travel with. _His series of clicks took him across the continent to the west coast, zooming further and further in until he found himself looking at a very familiar row of houses in Oxnard, California.

”That's where you were before,” Molly said. ”Are you looking for Claire again?”

He hadn't been looking for anyone in particular, but seeing the house, he suddenly knew the answer, and he sat back, stunned. ”Actually, no.”

* * *

  
**Chapter 7**

The air was getting colder, and the sun set so early he barely had time to see it some days, even if the rain clouds parted long enough for that to be a reasonable goal. Fortunately, people had started putting up lights and stars in the windows. The Christmas lights seemed a bit meager to him, but then, this was a mostly Muslim neighborhood.

”Why do you do it at all?” he'd asked Qais, when the boy had cooled down his temper enough to be back on friendly terms with him. ”You're not Christian.”

”It's dark,” he'd said, replacing a broken lightbulb. ”Do you think God will really be angry about us putting up some lights? Anyway, Jesus was cool. I don't mind celebrating his birthday a little.”

If the Mansours and their neighbors invested in a few decorations, the more Swedish parts of town seemed enthusiastic. There were Santa Clauses, Christmas trees, snowy landscapes, plastic reindeers. Even the enthusiasm, though, was muted. As public decorations went it all seemed a bit sparse. More like his mother's livingroom – and having that thought made him stop short in front of the window display and just stare, even though his shift started in two minutes and he was still a couple of blocks away from the restaurant.

”_This isn't a department store,” _he heard a dry voice say in his head, followed by a snap of fingers and a very quick_, ”Less is more, dear. Go on, take it off.”_

Looking back at the moment now, he saw her point – he'd had a horrible taste for candy-colored monstrosities. Still, he rather thought that was a right when you were six.

They really had been wealthy, his family, and definitely not Muslim. English speakers, and with an accent as American as his own. He lifted his hands up to his face and breathed deeply. Okay. Different world for certain – but this was the one he had to live in, and he was late for work. He resumed his pace, shaking off the memory as something he could always return to later.

Marcus caught him as he was changing clothes and asked, ”We're a few guys short for the late shift, it'd be great if you could stay for that, too.”

He paused in his dressing and carefully arranged his facial features so there was no hint of a frown, no sigh escaping past his lips. ”Sure, why not?”

”Excellent.”

”I'm going to need a break in between, though.”

”Sure!” Marcus agreed, sounding like it was the height of generosity to allow a second break for someone working double shifts. ”Take an hour to relax in between. No problem.”

”Thanks.” He waited until Marcus was almost by the door, and then casually asked, ”What's the policy on overtime again?”

Marcus offered a flashy grin. ”Hey, if you ask me, all that union stuff is just a way to stop people from getting decent pay to begin with. But I don't mind throwing in an extra 20 kronor an hour. What do you think?”

He thought someone should call the cops on this guy sooner rather than later, but he knew the difference between a deal he should haggle and one best left alone, and so he smiled thinly. ”Sounds great. Well. I'll get right to it, then.”

By now, he knew the routines pretty well without needing help, so when Rim showed up after school he was happy to see her more because she usually provided some entertainment than because he actually had any need for her.

This time, though, she scowled at him when he said hello, and declared, ”I'm not talking to you!”

”Yes you are,” he said calmly, picking up bottle tops from a plastic plant.

”I'm not!”

He spread his hands. ”And yet...”

”Oh, shut up!” But her mouth was twitching, and as he returned to the kitchen he heard her reluctant giggle behind him.

They were both busy for a while after that, but first thing they met up again, he said, ”All right, I'll bite. What did I do?”

”You know what you did.”

He breathed in between his teeth. ”You've been talking to Aisha.” No, that didn't ring true. Nothing in Aisha's behavior had implied that she'd go complaining to her baby sister, especially so late after the fact. ”Or to Qais.”

Her huff at that told him everything he needed to know.

”Nothing happened,” he said, feeling irritated at having to explain himself to a seventeen-year-old girl. For fuck's sake, even Qais wasn't angry anymore, was she going to start now? ”Nothing's going to happen either.”

”Why not?” she snapped. ”Is my sister not good enough for you?”

That definitely wasn't the angle he had expected. ”What? No! Yes – of course she is. What are you talking about? I thought you guys were against this.”

”You guys? Who is that, me and Qais? We don't have to have to have the same opinion on everything.”

”So what _is_ your opinion?”

”Why do you give up so easy? She likes you.”

He felt a small sense of triumph at that – he wasn't yet so addle-brianed he couldn't tell when a woman found him attractive. But it didn't change anything, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to figure out a way to explain this without sounding like a jerk. ”Your sister has a very acute moral code, and I'm a married man.”

”Och?” she said with a shrug and a roll of her eyes. ”You knew that before. You don't even remember your wife. If you really loved Aisha, you would find a way.”

That was the pressing point, wasn't it? He didn't want to burst her little bubble, so he evaded the implied challenge. ”She's not interested in pursuing anything, and I respect that.”

”Well, of course not, if you come on to her just like that. You have to ease into these things.”

He had a very hard time keeping his face straight at her sententious advice. ”I really don't think she's waiting for me to woo her.”

”Well, I really don't think you should keep your head that far up your ass.”

The laughter he'd been trying to hold back burst forward at that, and he shook his head. ”I'm not having this conversation.”

”Well, good,” she said, snickering a little, ”because I'm not talking to you. And the people over at five seem ready to order, so...” She gestured aimlessly and started walking away, but stopped and called back: ”So, that's it, then?”

”That's it.”

”You suck so much.”

”Thank you. Go serve your customers.”

* * *

The only upside with the late shift was that the customers, busy entertaining each other, no longer cared if the tables were spotless. The main downside was that they were drunk and annoying. He returned after his break, his legs and back still feeling the weight of the first shift, and the first thing that met him when he stepped through the door was a puddle of vomit. Sticking out his head again, he asked the bouncers, ”Who the hell let a drunk through the door first thing?”

”It's Saturday,” Alexander protested. He was slightly smaller than his colleague and made up for it by being a loud-mouth. ”If we keep the drunks out, we won't get any money.”

”Maybe so, but I think ten thirty is a bit early to be puking at the floors.”

Josef, the other guy, snorted. ”Told you that blonde should have been sent home.”

”She was eighteen.”

”Eighteen and two minutes, and could hardly stand up.”

”Hey, who am I to deny a girl to celebrate her birthday?”

Josef shook his head mournfully. ”He can never resist a blonde. Sorry.”

”Just keep him reigned in for the rest of the evening, okay?”

He returned inside and fetched a mop and a bucket of water in the cleaning cupboard. One saving grace about having people go sick this early at night was that everyone else was still sober enough to walk around the mess rather than through it. It didn't take him long before all that remained was a wet spot on the floor.

”Do you need help?” Rawan crouched down beside him, brushing aside her salt-and-pepper curls.

”I've got it covered, thanks.” He stood up and held out the bucket for her to take. ”Though if you want to clean this out, I won't say no.”

”Nice.”

”You offered. Aren't you supposed to be serving drinks anyway?”

”I have a break. Can I spend it on a better way?” She took the bucket from him and grinned. That grin of hers was really catching, missing tooth and all.

”How long have you worked here?” he asked her as they got rid of the rags.

”Only since I divorced.”

”You're divorced?”

She looked surprised. ”Yes, Rim didn't say that? I lived with them after.”

”Oh, right. Qais mentioned a woman – I didn't know it was you.”

She shrugged and rinsed the bucket with water. ”It's me.”

”This was fairly recent, wasn't it?” He finished washing the mop and hung it up against the wall.

”Eight months.”

”Do you have children?”

”Four. All big now.” Having put the bucket away, she started walking towards the bathrooms to wash her hands, and he followed her. ”When my youngest girl leaved she told me to leave too, and to the end I did. She was right.”

”Good for you,” he said dryly. ”So now you're on your own?”

”Alone and happy. What about you? Do you have a family?”

He scrubbed his hands with soap, trying to figure out how to answer that one. Finally he decided on something resembling the truth. ”I lost them. Before I came here.”

”Did they die?”

”I don't know. It's complicated.”

He expected her to ask more questions, but she didn't, just watched him with so much sympathy it made him uncomfortable, while also making him want to take her right there, against the wall. That obviously wasn't an option, and so he settled for laying his hand on her arm. Her eyes remained calm, and the shadow of a smile tugged at her lips.

”I should get back to work,” he said.

”I should...” She pointed across her shoulder to the stalls.

”This is the men's room.”

She made a dismissive sound, and for a second let her hand touch his hip. ”You're the only man here, and you must work.”

”True enough.” He smiled. ”I'll leave you to it, then.”

He was still smiling as he returned to his duties, enough that some people gave him suspicious glances. Showing happiness – even meaningless signs of happiness like a smile – around strangers was one of those things he'd learned proved him a foreigner, and he did his best to stifle his contentment. With a job like this, it wasn't very hard. Soon the smile was wiped off his face, and later he had to remember to keep his frown to a minimum; neutral and nondescript was the way to go.

Around two o'clock he had long since regretted agreeing to double shifts, and he was working up a blistering headache. He was feeling so unforgiving towards the world that he didn't react to the guy in the corner who gave the woman next to him a heavy and clearly unwelcome groping. When the woman reacted by spitting in the guy's face, however, he felt a jolt of dark amusement.

The guy was drunk enough and mean enough to think this was a good reason to grab the wrists of his would-be paramour. It looked like things would turn ugly fast, and so he put down his tray of glasses and stepped up to the pair.

”Hey. Cut it out.”

The guy answered with something rude-sounding and pulled the woman closer. She kicked him in the shins and did her best to get her knee up to his balls.

”I said, cut it out.” With the woman's help, he managed to get the two of them separated. ”I think it's time for you to leave.”

”Jävla blatte,” the guy growled. ”You don't tell me what to do!”

”Porta han,” said the woman. ”Kick him out, that fucking scumbag!”

”She spit at me!”

”Yeah, well, you had it coming.” He took a step to the left as the guy made a move to sneak past. ”The way I see it, you have two choices. You can leave now and come back next week, or you can hang around for the manager to come and kick you out for good.”

The guy pondered this and opted for punching him in the face. It was a sloppy punch that didn't hurt much, and he found himself smiling – a wide, predatory smile at the sheer joy of getting to tell _one_ of these littering, oxygen-wasting knuckle-draggers where to shove it. ”Well. It seems door number one just closed in your face. Now get the hell out.”

He didn't hit back, or even threaten to do so. All he did was smile, but the guy got an uncertain look in his eyes and started to back off, though still hurling insults in both languages. ”Din jävla skit, I'm gonna klaga... gonna complaint about you, fuck you...”

”Complain about what?”

He recognized Marcus's voice, but still glanced over his shoulder. The woman entered a long diatribe in Swedish, with some angry interjections from the guy. To his relief, Marcus listened attentively to the woman and then gave the guy some sharp orders that made reluctantly head for the door, still cursing. Well, what did you know. Apparently there were people in this world even Marcus found repulsive.

Since the matter seemed to be settled, he returned to his tray, only to be called back by Marcus.

”Hey, Kalle! Good work.”

He turned back, and couldn't help looking in the direction of the woman, who was now headed over to the bar. ”Thanks.”

”Get the little girl to help you brush up your Swedish, and I'll stick you by the door for Lucia night.”

By the door – as a bouncer, he realized. Thank God. Standing outside for hours in the sleet was hardly his idea of a good pastime, but it sure as hell beat wiping off vomit stains.

”Okay,” he said, vowing to get not just Rim on the job, but the whole family. ”Will do.”


	8. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 8 and Interlude 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 8**

**Chapter 8**

”Nej, du är för full,” Rim said, and he obediently repeated the phrase. While the language CDs he had borrowed from the library had taught him how to order coffee, being a bouncer was another matter.

”Jag är en jävla åsna.”

”You know,” he said, crossing his arms, ”this would be a lot easier if you didn't throw in random foul language for me to learn.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked so guilty he had to bite his cheek not to laugh.

”I didn't... How did you know?”

”I've been here for nearly a month. I know what 'jävla' means.”

”Oh.” The frown on her face started out embarrassed, but soon took on a hint of annoyance. ”You know a lot more than you let on, don't you?”

”I make an effort to learn things.”

”I clearly have to watch what I say around you.”

”You do that,” he agreed amiably.

She watched him with narrowed eyes. ”So if you know so much Swedish, what am I saying now? Be pappa köra dig till landet idag.”

His first instinct was to dismiss it as another rude phrase, but on a second thought, the few words he did understand didn't seem to fit that theory. ”Something about your dad.”

”Yes. What about him?”

”He's doing something today.”

”Good start.”

”Repeat it.”

”Be. Pappa. Köra. Dig. Till. Landet. Idag.”

”Me to... He's taking me somewhere?”

”If you _ask_ him.”

”And where exactly is he supposed to take me?”

”Out to the country.”

The conclusion from this suggestion was easy enough to draw. ”You want to see me fly.”

”Please? None of us are working today. It could be a family picnic.”

”I believe the word you're looking for is 'circus'.”

”Oh, come on. It would be great! We could go out into the forest, no one would see us there, not in December.”

”I'll think about it.”

”Don't you want to fly? If I could fly, I'd want to do it all the time.”

”I said I'll think about it.” He had no desire to discuss the topic any further, and so he left the kitchen, opting instead for the livingroom, where Qais and Zaynab were playing chess together. His memories of the game were sketchy, but it only took him a glance at the board to determine that Zaynab was going to win – and in very few moves.

”Hey,” Qais said. ”You want to play?”

”That's all right, finish the game. It should be over quickly anyway, unless your mother is crueler than she looks.”

Qais' shoulders tensed, but only for a moment, then he shrugged and gave him a tentative smile. ”I learned to play when I was ten, and I still can't beat her.”

He chuckled a little at that, relieved that he could banter with Qais again. After the restaurant, they'd never spoken about the Aisha thing, and maybe they should have – Aisha herself had claimed it wasn't necessary, but the way they tiptoed around each other now was pretty irksome. As for Adil and Zaynab, he had a feeling they had no idea anything had happened at all.

Throwing a glance out the window, he found the sky gray and dull, but no signs of rain or snow. ”What was the weather forecast today?”

Qais asked Zaynab, and then said, ”Like this. All day.”

He nodded slowly. ”Do you think...”

”What?”

”Where's Adil?”

”He had some letters to send. Why?”

He stepped up to the window and looked out, imagining himself soaring through that cold, humid air. Not the best conditions, perhaps, but if it was possible, if it was safe, why shouldn't he? ”I'd like to go to the countryside.”

* * *

The car wasn't built for six people, but the younger Mansours were all thin enough that he could squeeze into the backseat along with them, if just barely. Outside the city, there were large, flat fields of brown earth and greenish grass, one after another. Not a soul in sight, but nowhere to take cover either – all it took was one person passing at the wrong time, and the drive would be for nothing.

After more than an hour in a crowded car, broken only when they stopped for gas in some godforsaken hole where the station attendant looked at them like they were going to rob him, he was ready to throw caution to the wind and take flight from behind the nearest tree. When he hinted at this, however, Adil protested vividly.

”No, no, no, worry not. We come to forest soon.”

And so they did – well, soonish, anyway. He suspected the place was beauiful in summer, even if the bare bones of it now made the flourish hard to imagine. With all their leaves long since shed, the trees of the forest looked as gray as the sky, but together, they still provided shield from curious eyes. By now, even walking felt like a luxury, and he stretched his legs with pleasure. The others climbed out and did the same. For a while it really was like a picnic, with random amiable chatter in three languages and the girls ganging up to fill the hood of Qais's jacket with dead leaves.

Soon enough, though, they all started throwing expectant glances in his direction. He forced himself to grin at them. ”All right, then, I guess this is showtime.” But he didn't move. This was ridiculous. They all knew what he was, they weren't about to tell anyone, and he'd seen for himself how deserted this place was.

”You don't have to,” Qais said.

”Right,” Rim hurried to agree. ”We'll hate you forever, but you don't have to.”

Aisha cuffed her at the back of the head and muttered for her to shut up. Adil and Zaynab said nothing at all, just watched him patiently. Adil was leaning rather heavily against the car; two hours in the same position probably wasn't ideal for his leg.

He could ask them to turn around and take him back, he knew that. Rim would whine about it, but the rest would accept it with the same grace that they had accepted him into their home in the first place.

He could do that, but it would be a damned rotten thing to do, leading everyone on this wild goose chase. Unfair both to them and to himself.

Stepping into the middle of the narrow road, he took a deep breath and let go, shooting into the air at high speed. The forest melted away under him into a big green blot, surrounded by a quiltlike pattern of green and brown fields.

He memorized the look of the spot so he'd know it when he came back, and then he turned north, flying over more forests, interrupted by blue patches of lakes and the twirling threads that were roads leading into cities. The wind was wet and chilly in his face, and he sped up even more until he couldn't feel it, enclosed in his own private world.

Fast was good – even if someone did see him, through a telescope or from an airplane they would never recognize him as human. He turned west and experimented with the speed, darting forward and lagging behind, and even let himself hover to a standstill over the ocean, drifting with the winds. The salt stung his eyes, and he laughed as he wiped the tears away. A flock of geese passed under him, and he contemplated darting down to scare them a bit, but settled for following them for a while, until he saw the twinkling lights of two cities, one on an island and the other on shore. Beyond the cities, he could see the fields again, and he parted from the geese, searching for the wedge of dark forest that was his starting spot.

It took him a while to find it – the landscape was too homogenous – but finally there was no question about it, and he let himself circle lower until he saw the metallic glint of the car. He straightened up as much as possible, to minimize the air resistance, and shot down. Only when the treetops nearly brushed the palm of his feet did he slow down, softening the blow as he landed on the road in front of the car.

The others had returned inside, but scrambled out to see him. Within seconds they swarmed around him, patting his back and chattering on.

”That was _amazing_!” Qais said, giving him a bear hug that was cut short almost as soon as it had started, as he got in close contact with the wet clothes. ”Oh my God, you must be freezing!”

He laughed breathlessly and shook his head. ”Just my clothes, I'm fine. Can't touch me at that speed.”

”We were worried about you,” Aisha said. ”You were gone for nearly an hour. Were you lost?”

”A little bit, but not really. Sorry. Lost track of time, I guess.”

”Was it fun?”

He stilled, grinning at Adil who had asked the question. Adil smiled back, his eyes revealing a boyish glee. ”It was better than fun. You wouldn't believe... thank you. I needed this. I think I've needed it for... ever, really.” He laughed again, unable not to.

Zaynab tugged at his arm. ”Come. You cold.”

”No, I'm fine. I'm fine. Really.”

”You cold sen.”

”Yeah, okay,” he agreed, because her pidgin assertion had a point – another hour in soaking wet, icy clothes would make him cold even if he wasn't now. Zaynab gave him a large, somewhat dusty blanket from the trunk and then promptly turned away as he stripped down to his underwear and put on first the blanket and then Adil's coat.

”We should have bringed with clothes to you,” Adil said as they all sat down in the car. ”Sorry.”

”No, it's okay. I should have figured it out myself. Thank you. You've really... thank you.”

With four people in the back seat, he was in no danger of developing hypothermia, that was for sure. He reached past Qais to tug at Rim's long ponytail. ”So, kiddo, was it worth it?”

”Well, let's see. You flew up, stayed away for an hour, then flew back down.” She pretended to think about it. ”Yes, it was worth it. Can I come with you next time?”

”Absolutely not.”

”Why not?”

”Because if I drop you, you'll be dead.”

Her pout was so deep he tugged at her ponytail again. ”Tell you what, when we get home, I'll fly you as high as the ceiling and spin you around a bit. How about that?”

”That's not the same!”

”No, it's not,” he agreed, because it really, really wasn't. ”But it's a hell of a lot safer.”

”Okay.”

Qais threw him a glance, and he wondered if he'd have to repeat the offer. But instead, Qais said, with the shadow of a smile, ”Trade you my power?”

He laughed. ”I would if I could. As long as you traded back again.”

”After a day or so.”

”After a day or so.” Despite the jokes, there was a serious undercurrent, and he couldn't blame Qais for his envy. Flying was a thrill like nothing else, and he really wished he could have taken them all along, but the mere thought made his palms sweaty. He could feel a hand in his, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on. Twice. It was a double memory, and the second time, there was this... He rubbed his wrist at the memory of sudden, sharp pain. And then what? Who had been flying with him, and what had happened to that person? Was he dead? All he could know for certain was that he should have held on, but couldn't, and that was enough to know that he would never, ever endanger any of these people by flying with them. This was for him and him alone, and he had to admit that a part of him liked that.

He laughed and talked with the others on the way back, but he had no idea what was being said, his mind still on the flight, the magnificent freedom of being all body, no broken mind or confusing surroundings.

They drove into town, but instead of going home, they steered off towards the railway station.

”You don't mind, do you?” Qais asked. ”I have to talk to some people about work.”

”No, it's fine,” he said, climbing out of the car to let Qais through.

Standing out in the street with bare feet and a blanket covering his legs got him some odd glances from people passing by. Most of them looked once, then hurried to look away, as if his strange attire were symptom of some horrible disfiguring illness. He hurried to sit back down and close the door, unwilling to make a spectacle of himself.

Qais took longer than expected to return, and when he did, squeezing a poster in one hand, it was clear from his quick stride and pinched expression that something was wrong.

He opened the door and prepared himself to step out, but before he had a chance to, Qais tossed the poster in his lap. ”I found this on the station wall.”

He looked down, and found himself looking back – clean-shaven and well dressed, with a tightly worn tie and an even tighter smile. The sight was incredibly familiar, yet so different from what he saw in the mirror every morning that it came as a shock. Beneath the black and white image capital letters read: ”Have you seen this man? Call 073-873554.”

”Oh my God!” Rim said, looking over his shoulder.

”What?” Aisha leaned in closer and peered at the poster. ”Oh my God!”

Adil and Zaynab turned around to see what was going on, and the girls handed over the poster to them, while he sat dazed, trying to calculate all the implications of this.

”What do we now?” Adil asked gently.

”I don't know.”

”Should we call the number?” Rim asked.

”No!” His answer was sharp and immediate. ”We don't know who put this up, or how they know I'm here. If these are the bad guys, we can't afford to give them a trail.” Still speaking, he got a flash of memory: running away from two men with a gun, only to be met by a wire fence. The image made him dizzy, and he leaned his head heavily in his hands.

”Let me look at that photo again. Wow, you're such a dick.”

”Rim!”

”He is, though! Look at that smile! Creepy.”

”I think I'm gonna throw up,” he muttered.

”I would, too. What were you thinking?”

”Rim, I think he's serious.”

By now, he could barely see, but he felt Qais's arm around his shoulders, leading him outside. ”Jalla, over here.”

His hand brushed the side of a garbage can and he threw up inside it, over and over until his stomach was empty and his knees weak. The pressure inside his head eased, and he managed to stop himself from falling by holding onto the edges of the can. The blanket around his legs was sliding down to a rather uncomfortable position.

”Are you okay?” Qais asked, and he made a noncommittal sound. ”I guess this was a bit too much for you, huh?”

He didn't answer – any lie he could come up with would be spotted anyway – and instead just followed Qais back to the car. There were so many questions he needed to untangle, and he really looked forward to just going home.

* * *

  
**Interlude 4: Peter and Noah**

Peter came into Noah's room feeling as tired as if he'd never had any sleep at all. Noah had ordered room service, and he waved a fork towards the breakfast tray on the desk. ”You should try the Finnish rye bread. It's excellent.”

Peter didn't doubt that this was true – the hotel had a terrific bread selection – but he still sat down without taking any food at all.

Noah raised his eyebrows and stopped eating. ”New dream?”

”No. Yes. Same one.”

”Any more clues this time?”

”There are fields. Same kind of fields we saw coming here. Same kind of fields that seem to be all over this county. It's not like they're numbered.”

Noah watched him silently, his expression inscrutable, and after a while returned to his meal, pouring salt over his hard-boiled egg.

”I'm sorry,” Peter said. ”We're not getting anywhere, and it makes me jumpy. I dragged you all the way out here, and your family's got to be... Claire...”

There was a flash of something in Noah's eyes that warned him off taking that thought any further.

”The worst part is, I think the dream's wrong. Well, not wrong, I think he _was_ there, over those fields, like I see, but I don't think that's where he is anymore. I mean, I do feel him, sort of, and I don't get that vibe at all.”

”What vibe?”

”You know. Field vibe.”

”So what do you get?”

”I don't know.”

”Yes, you do. Don't waste my time, Peter. What do you get from him? City? Forest? Ocean?”

”Apartment block,” Peter said without thinking.

Noah leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly.

”That's all I get. An apartment block.”

”Well, it's a start.”

”And what are we supposed to do about it? Search every apartment block in the area? Sure, we can put up more flyers, call more hospitals, check out more towns, but if he doesn't want to be found...” He paused, feeling the weight of his words only after he had said them. ”That's it, isn't it? I thought he was injured, but my dream has him flying. If he can do that, he can pick up a phone. He doesn't want to be found.”

Noah shrugged. ”That's entirely possible. The world's not very safe for people like you. If he thought he was in danger of being exposed, he might have taken some pretty drastic measures.”

That sounded a lot like Nathan, Peter had to admit. Except for the part where he let his family think he was dead. Nathan couldn't actually be that ruthless, could he? But he had to admit that his brother was a little too apt at keeping secrets. ”So that's it, then. Say you're right, and he's in hiding. Then we _can't_ find him.”

Noah took a sip of his coffee, grimaced, and poured some milk in it. ”I've caught a lot of people who didn't want to be found. I'm the first to admit that it'll be a bit harder this time. We don't have the usual resources, for one thing. For another, we want to keep him safe – and ourselves too – which means we have to maintain a slightly lower profile. No involving the newspapers, and if we talk to the police, we need to be very careful. I think we can probably get away with it, if we give him a false name. I very much doubt anyone here would recognize a New York congressman by sight. We obviously can't accuse him of murder or anything like that, nothing in the public interest. Embezzlement, maybe. That should keep the risk down to a minimum, but it's still a risk. It's up to you if you want to try it.”

Peter considered the idea. He disliked it immensely, but taking that into consideration was starting to feel like a luxury. ”Pretend he's a criminal?”

”All those resources we don't have, the police will have. It would save us a lot of legwork.”

”Can't we just file a missing person?”

”We can, but they'll spend a lot more energy searching for a criminal.”

Peter sighed. The thought of telling the cops that his brother was an embezzler was revolting; in terms of betrayal it was right up there with Nathan publicly declaring him suicidal. ”I'll think about it.”

”You do that.”

He reached for a slice of bread, which turned out to be still warm enough to make the butter melt and sweat drops develop on the cheese. Taking a bite, he found that Noah was right, the bread was delicious – just not quite delicious enough to keep his mind preoccupied. God damn it, he refused to believe that Nathan was hiding specifically from him, and if that wasn't the case, was it too much to ask to be given some sort of hint, an e-mail from an anonymous account saying ”I'm not dead”? He rubbed his eyes, cursing Nathan's name.

The phone rang. It was such a perfect answer to his thoughts that he just stared at it at first, thinking that his current tired state had made him prone to audio hallucinations. His hand got the gist slightly faster than his brain and snatched up the phone. Even if it _was_ a hallucination, he didn't care, as long as the hallucination extended to letting him hear Nathan's voice. ”Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end, and then a light, accented voice asked, ”Who is this?”

”Peter Petrelli. Who am I talking to?”

Another pause. ”What?”

”My name is Peter Petrelli,” he repeated with a lot more patience than he felt. ”Who are you? Do you know Nathan?”

He pressed the phone to his ear, trying to pick up anything, any background noise, but it was quiet, and when he looked at the screen he found that the call had been disconnected.

”No, no, no,” he pleaded, pressing redial. ”Come on, pick up, don't leave me hanging.”

No one answered, but then, he wouldn't have expected that. She'd been given what she wanted – his name – and the fact that he had nothing, absolutely nothing, well that was just too bad, wasn't it?

Well. Not _absolutely_ nothing. He still had the phone number, and if they were lucky, the number was listed. Judging by how unsure the voice had sounded, he rather thought it might be.


	9. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 9**

**Chapter 9**

Lucia night was cold, but the hard winds that had been brushing over town with all the force of a cheese grater had finally subsided, and so standing guard outside the club at night was easier than it could have been.

Josef was very easygoing about having a new bouncer to take care of. ”Those gloves aren't warm enough,” he declared. ”Let me know when your fingers are numb, so we can change a while.”

”Oh,” he said, looking down at the gloves he had bought along with a bunch of other things at Myrorna second hand during his first week. ”Thank you.”

”You're welcome. The first night can be hard. It's easier with warm hands.”

Josef kept chatting throughout the entire first hour. He would have wanted to participate in the conversation to a larger degree, but time and time again they ran into a topic where he had to lie, or evade a question, or where he simply didn't have the first clue how to answer. He did his best to smile and joke to hide the lack of substance in his contributions. Standing out in the cold would be bad enough without having to do it along with someone who resented him for seemingly being a socially retarded asshole. Judging by Josef's reactions, it seemed to work, but he was still grateful when the customers started pouring in, forcing them to keep small talk down to a minimum.

The crowd was larger than usual, younger, and drunker. He put his rehearsed lines to good use, and found that one advantage of not speaking much Swedish was that when people started talking back, he could cross his arms and ignore everything they hurled at him, leaving it for Josef to deal with the specifics.

Near midnight, Marcus came out and gave them a radiant smile. ”Allt okay?”

Josef stiffened immediately, and he could see why. Marcus wasn't the kind of guy who'd casually make sure that all was well with his employees.

”All's fine,” he replied.

”Good. Good.” Marcus stayed put, hands in his pockets, but didn't say anything further until there was a temporary gap in the stream of people. ”Here's the thing. You're doing great. Both of you, great job. But it's getting a little bit unbalanced in there.”

”Unbalanced? Has there been trouble?”

”Oh no, no trouble. But this _is_ Lucia night. It's a very important tradition for Swedish young people. I don't expect you to know that – you are new – but Josef knows, right Josef?”

Josef nodded, looking grim.

”I want them to feel welcome. Like they're among friends. Now, we can mix the crowd a bit, but... keep the balance. Okay?”

While he was still trying to figure out if he was meant to interpret that the way it sounded, Josef assured Marcus that there was no problem. Marcus offered them a final smile and clapped both of their shoulders before heading back inside.

Ten minutes later, Josef refused entrance to a bunch of twentysomethings, claiming that their clothes were against dress code. Jeans and hoodies seemed to be more rule than exception where their usual clientele was concerned, which made him raise his eyebrows a little. As excuses went, it struck him as a rather poor one, and he was anything but surprised when the kids started arguing back. They were polite enough about it, no curses or fighting attempts, but their voices rose more and more with each offended phrase, and even though he'd rather have let them in without any hassle, he figured he'd better step in before the entire waiting line got involved.

”Listen, we'd love to have you, but we don't make the rules. If you go home and change, I promise you I'll let you cut the line when you come back. Or you could just try some other place. I think the one around the corner has something going on tonight.”

”Yeah, a gay club.”

He almost managed to keep a straight face. ”Well, don't knock it 'til you've tried it.”

One of them started to snicker, and the tension slowly diffused. The group talked a bit in low voices amongst each other, and then left.

”Think they'll be back?” Josef asked. There was a hint of warning in his voice.

”I very much doubt they'll go through all that trouble just to get into this fine establishment. If they do, I think they deserve to cut the line. Don't you?”

Josef stared at him for a moment and then muttered an affirmation.

”What _is_ the dress code, anyway?”

”Don't start.”

”I'm just asking.”

Josef's gaze touched on the line, which was starting to thin out. ”Not right now, okay?”

He shrugged, letting the matter rest until they had a few moments to themselves. In the meantime, Josef showed a bunch of other people away with flimsy excuses, and systematically let every young blonde girl cut the line – sometimes with company, sometimes not, depending on what said company looked like.

”So, have I got this right?” he asked as soon as he had the chance. ”It's the white customers we want?”

”It's the _Swedish_ customers we want,” Josef corrected. ”If white's the best you can do, go for it. I doubt Marcus will ask them questions.”

He crossed his arms. ”Hm.”

Josef watched him with apprehension. ”Listen, if you don't want to do it, go home. Say you're sick. But don't cause any trouble – I don't want to lose my job.”

He crossed his arms, thinking of his colleagues in there, with the mix of languages thrown around the kitchen. Hell, for that matter, with the kind of measuring stick Josef had been using, the two of them would most likely have been kept out too, had they come for a drink. Not to mention the Mansours, who had been so generous to him... of course, the chances of one of them showing up there this late at night was less than zero. Even Rim made pains never to work pub hours.

More importantly, he was finally earning his keep, able to pay them back for some of that generosity. That had to count for more than serving strangers' need for alcohol and one-night-stands.

”No trouble,” he said reluctantly.

”You sure?”

A group of people was drawing nearer, so he gave a curt nod and smiled at them. A couple of them could conceivably pass as Swedish, but letting two in from a company of eight was out of the question. ”How do you say 'members only'?” he mumbled to Josef.

”Bara för medlemmar,” Josef said, and looking up, repeated it to the party. They shrugged and moved on, seemingly disappointed but not upset.

As the night went on, he found the lies easier, and there was only one instance where he flat out refused to follow Josef's lead. It was a group of five kids, certainly blonde enough to pass, but one of the heavily made-up faces was so young it made him balk, and he stopped the girl, his smile dying for the first time in more than an hour. ”ID.”

”Va?” she said, her round blue eyes going even rounder in disbelief.

”ID. Leg.”

She protested that she'd forgotten it at home, and a bunch of other things that he only half understood and thus didn't have to pay any mind, but in the end she left, along with two of her friends – the last two gave apologetic shrugs, showed ID and were allowed inside.

”I don't care,” he said, when Josef gave him a telling look afterwards. ”Keeping people out is one thing, but I'm not letting children in to drink.”

Josef sighed and made a gesture that very clearly said, 'what can you do?'

The last hour, they stood just inside the door, helping people leave when they'd had too much. He couldn't help noticing that Marcus's Lucia night policy was hell on the place – people were drunker and worse behaving than he'd ever seen them before.

Marcus himself seemed pleased, though, when he showed up a while before closing. ”Good work tonight, guys! What do you say, Kalle, does this job suit you?”

”It's a bit too cold,” he said, getting the smile back in place. ”If you don't mind...”

”No, no, not at all!” Marcus patted him on the back. ”The climate's not for everyone!”

He disappeared into his office, and Josef grimaced. ”Guess I'm back with Alexander. Too bad, he's an idiot.”

”Sorry.”

”It's okay. You do what you think is right.”

Rawan came up to them, digging a cigarette from her pocket. ”You have cold hands?” she asked him.

”Not anymore.” Josef's gloves had been a lot better than his own, and after an hour inside, his fingers were every bit as warm as normal.

”I'm so warm, I need some cold hands...” She took her coat from the wardrobe, but didn't put it on. Instead she stepped outside and lit her cigarette, holding the door open. ”Walk me home?”

Well, there was certainly no mistaking her intentions. His smile softened to the real thing. ”Sure.”

* * *

Rawan's one-room apartment was small and sparsely furnished, though the walls were clattered with pictures and drapes, creating a cacophony of colors that made the space seem even smaller. He stopped by the door, taking it all in.

”I like bright things,” she said, following his gaze. ”This way, I still have room to move.”

”Yeah,” he said, watching the bizarre blend of flowery drapes, plaid drapes, fuzzy waterlily art prints, strange prints with lots of angles, prints of naked ladies, and stick figures drawn on wrapping paper. In his current tired state, it made him a bit dizzy.

”Do you want something to drink?” she asked.

”Better not.” He didn't want to spoil the mood, but he had a feeling that alcohol would make him fall asleep on the spot.

”Nothing? Tea? Juice? Water?”

”Water sounds nice,” he said. ”Thank you.”

She went into the kitchen, which was so small that he had to lean in the doorway rather than go inside while she was there. His eyes surveyed her face. The shadows from the dim light over the sink showed no mercy to the lines of age around her mouth and eyes, but she was so vivacious that even so, she remained highly attractive, and he watched with pleasure as she took two high, blue glasses from the cupboard and filled them to the brim.

The only places to sit were a chair by a tiny desk entirely occupied by a worn-looking computer, and the bed. He opted for the bed, taking a few sips of water before putting the glass down on the floor.

”Do you want that I fold open the table?” she asked.

”No, it's fine.” He let his hand rest between them, an open invitation for her to make the next move.

She drank deeply from her own glass and put it down on the floor. As she moved back up to sitting position, she leaned in and kissed him, very softly. Her mouth teased his with shadow touches, the very tip of her tongue tasting his lips, and he gently deepened the kiss further, his hands settled on her firm, rounded hips. He noticed that she had some trouble deciding what to do with hers, and while the kiss was passionate and enticing, she gave off a vibe of insecurity, as if she was much... _younger_, he realized, his mind and body recalling the sense of being scrawny and half-grown, kissing a pretty blonde in a corridor full of lockers.

Well, he wasn't scrawny and half-grown anymore, and he paused to ask, ”Are you sure about this?”

”Very sure, yes,” she said. ”Why? Do I something wrong?”

He could think of few things tackier than criticizing a woman's kissing technique. ”No, of course not. It's just that last time I tried to pick up a woman, she...” Talking about Aisha's sexual status _would_ be one of those tackier things. ”I got into some trouble with her family.” Not entirely true, but close enough for credibility without giving away identities.

”I leaved my family,” she pointed out, smiling.

”Yeah, I know.” He wrapped his hands around her waist. ”Am I your rebound?”

”What is that?”

”A guy you're with because you just got out of a relationship, and you're ready to test your wings again.”

She thought about it. ”Yes, a little.”

He kissed her earlobe, and she moved her head so her soft curls caressed his neck. ”Okay then.”

Their conversation after that was limited to short questions and affirmations interspersed by the occasional laugh, as they explored each other's bodies tentatively, finding out what the other liked, and at least in his case also finding out what he liked himself. He revelled in the sensation of her soft skin against his, her long fingers massaging his still-cold thighs thorugh the denim. He unbuttoned her tennis shirt and kissed her collarbones lightly before lifting the shirt over her head. The bra underneath he undid in one movement with a practiced ease he hadn't even known he possessed, and for a moment he saw a blonde woman, thinner and younger than Rawan, and a lot more aggressive.

He shook the image away, for once working _against_ his memories, refusing them entrance to his conscious mind. Let the now be the now, without any interruptions from the past. What memory could possibly give him this sensation anyway? Rawan's back was fast becoming slick with sweat under his hands, and he moved down, kissing her hips as he pulled down her pants, and then gently separating her legs to kiss even further.

”Oh!” she said, and then, hesitantly, ”Should I...?”

”Not yet,” he said, suspecting what her question would be. His heart was pounding and his body aching with desire, but something told him to wait. She ran her hands down his neck and back, driving him mad – and then she arched against him, and he knew that it was time, grabbing her hard so he could lay her down on the bed without stopping. He pulled off his pants and eased his way in, and oh God, oh dear God, had he forgotten this? Some part of him seemed to remember, certainly knew what to do, but the sensation, the passion gripped him with a force that took his breath.

When they were done, he watched her in wonder, this woman, ordinary enough that he'd pass her on the street without a second thought... or maybe not. That glint in her eyes was unmistakable, and she laughed at his gaze in a way that made him want to start all over again, if only he had the energy.

”You,” he said, kissing her hair, ”are beautiful.”

”I am old.”

”In that case, so am I.”

”Yes. We are old.” She lay her hand over his, hugging his fingers. ”It's good to be old. I wish I was old earlier, I would have dared so much.”

He laughed at that, and they sat together in silence for a while.

”Tell me about your wife.”

He withdrew slightly, put off by the question. ”What? Why?”

”She is important for you. I am curious. You love her, yes?”

”Yes,” he said, and it was a strange thing to say about someone he barely remembered, but he knew it was the truth. ”I do.”

She paused, and then asked, ”How does she look?”

”Dark hair,” he said, and the image formed as he spoke, clearer than ever before. ”Blue eyes – no, green. I'm not sure. Wide cheekbones, small chin... beautiful mouth.”

”She sounds pretty.”

”She is.” Well, that was hardly the most polite thing he could have said. ”Sorry.”

She waved it away as unimportant. ”What's her name?”

”I don't know.”

She pulled back, frowning hard at him. ”You don't know your wife's name?”

Why had he admitted that? He could easily have lied, come up with something believable. Maybe he should have. But Rawan hardly seemed the type to go running to the police, much less the mob, and what harm was there in telling her, really? ”Truth be told, I don't remember much of anything up until five weeks ago, when Qais found me in West Harbour.”

Her eyes widened. ”Va?”

Was the fact that he had apparently shocked her out of her English a good sign or a bad one? At least she was listening, and he ended up telling her nearly everything. The bits about flying he skipped, as well as the potential mob connections, but he did his best not to let those omissions force him into too many lies.

She sat quiet the whole time, just watching him with that stunned expression, and when he silenced, she took a deep breath and asked in a shaky voice, ”This is true? You don't joke with me?”

”It's true.”

”Your name isn't Kalle.”

He threw her a meaningful glance.

”No,” she corrected herself. ”Of course not. I thought it was... smeknamn.”

”Nickname,” he translated automatically. ”It is in a way. Rim came up with it.”

A quick smile. ”She would. Your real name?”

”I don't remember.”

”Have you tried to find your family?”

”A bit, yeah.” He chewed his lip – this was the part he'd rather not share. ”It's complicated. I have to stay below the radar.”

”Below what?”

”The radar. Police.”

”Why? Are you a bad guy?”

”I don't think so. Like I said, it's complicated.” He tugged at the blanket. Now that they were both just sitting around talking, he started to feel the chill of the apartment. Since getting dressed would give the wrong impression, covering himself seemed like the best option. ”Anyway, that's my life, or the last five weeks of it. What's your story?”

She blinked. ”Me?”

”Yeah. Tell me about...” Well, turnabout was fair play, he supposed. ”Your husband.”

The grimace she gave him told him more than words.

”That bad, huh?”

”No,” she said reluctantly. ”No, he was okay. Not someone I would have chose, but okay. But then we came here, and it made him scared. He feeled small and wanted me to feel small too. He always said the things I did wasn't important. School, jobs... he told me not to try. Told the children not to try and made them not listen to me anymore. He always said we would go back home.” She shook her head slowly and rolled her eyes. ”Home! To where? Lebanon, to live in camps? Palestine? I would not go there even if I could. I was a little girl when we leaved. It's not my home.”

He watched her, trying to imagine that kind of family life. It was so easy he found it a bit unsettling. ”So you divorced him.”

”Finally, yes.”

”And the children?”

”They're grown up. They can take care of themselves.”

He recalled the glimmer he sometimes got of children, little boys, and he wondered if he'd ever be able to brush them aside so easily. But for all her callousness, he couldn't help admiring her determination. You couldn't live your life for other people alone, try that and you'd end up like...

Who?

_Like... oh, he saw the face so clearly now, from the large eyes to the lopsided smile, but he needed a name that kept eluding him. He felt a sudden surge of something he could only dub homesickness, rendering him breathless. Yes. Drop everything you cared about for other people, and you ended up like that guy. But the kicker was, even without a name, he knew that that guy was the one person he would drop everything for._

The feeling was so strong it scared him, and he pulled Rawan in under the blanket, spooning her. ”Do you want to go again?”

She leaned back and tried to stifle a yawn, failing so miserably it made them both giggle. ”I want to sleep.”

”Okay,” he said, kissing her ear. ”Let's sleep.”


	10. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 10**

**Chapter 10**

The definite proof of his exhaustion was that the phone completely failed to wake him up. He drifted up from sleep very slowly when someone started shaking him.

”Heidi?” he mumbled into the pillow.

”Telephone,” Rawan said, pushing said item to his ear.

”Hm.” He made a drowsy grab for the phone and somehow managed to get hold of it. ”Hello?”

”You could have called home, you know. We were worried.”

”Hey, Rim,” he said, rubbing his eyes. ”Sorry about that. I got sidetracked.” He smiled at Rawan, who was in the process of getting dressed. Her expression was inscrutable, but her cheeks burned red.

”Someone followed me to school.”

”Huh.” Her words slowly sank in, and he blinked. ”What?” He should have known those damned posters were a bad sign. The thought of mobsters honing in on the Mansour family made his heart pound. ”Who was it? What did he look like?”

”I don't know. I never saw him.”

He sank back on the pillow. ”Rim...”

”No, no, no, listen to me. I didn't see him, but I _heard_ him. All the way to school. I just couldn't spot him, not ever. He's really good at hiding, whoever he is.”

To his ears, it sounded like a little girl's overactive imagination. ”Are you sure?”

”Yes!” The panic in her voice was very real. ”I'm not making this up, I swear! They found you. I'm so sorry!”

”Why would you...” And then he realized the only reasons he would be apologizing. ”Rim, please tell me you didn't call that number.”

Silence. He rubbed his forehead, trying to force his still groggy mind to work. If Rim had contacted the people putting up flyers, it didn't matter if the man following her was just her own guilty conscience speaking. Sooner or later, someone would trace the call, and he had no way of knowing if that someone was a friend or an enemy.

”You shouldn't have done that.” It was a simple statement – yelling at her would serve no purpose.

”I know,” she said in a small voice.

”Okay.” He rubbed his face, thinking. ”Here's what you do. Don't go out unless you have to. If you do go out, wear thick clothes, leather if you have any, and the heaviest boots you have.” It wouldn't help much, but anything was better than nothing; she'd have a better kick, and leather _might_ help against a knife. ”Talk to the others... is anyone at home now?”

”Mom.”

He groaned. Trying to have a conversation with Zaynab over the phone, even with Rim as an intermediary, was not something he looked forward to. ”Tell her to be careful, the same as you.”

There was a pause, and then she said, ”Dardan upstairs has a knife. I could ask him if I could borrow it.”

”No!” he barked. ”Whatever you do, do not pull a weapon on these people. You don't want that kind of trouble. Don't even think about it.”

”Okay.”

”Promise me.”

”Yes!”

”All right.” He drew a deep, shaky breath. The room was dancing before his eyes in a disturbing way, and he closed his eyes for a second. ”Will Qais come home at all tonight?”

”Six o'clock.”

”Good. When he comes home, tell him...” He hesitated, knowing exactly what he'd meant to say, but feeling rather queasy at the thought. For all he knew, he could be signing Qais' death warrant. ”Ask him what he can pick up.”

”Pick up?”

”From the guy,” he said testily. ”The invisible hiding guy.”

”Oh. Okay.”

It wasn't even remotely close to okay. ”Did you at least learn anything?”

”At school?”

That made him laugh, both the question itself and the incredulity in her voice. ”No, not at school. When you made the phone call.”

”I didn't really talk to him. I kind of chickened out.”

”Thank God you did.”

”Though he did say his name was Peter Petrelli.”

He gripped the phone hard. ”Peter...?”

”Petrelli.”

Even as she repeated the word, he mouthed it silently to himself, and a shiver of joy and relief ran down his spine. The sensation was accompanied by a bright light and the memory of sharp pain in his hand. He grinned, even as he rubbed the painful spot. This wasn't the mob after him, he was willing to bet on that. Probably best to stick to the precautions, just in case, but he didn't feel half as bad anymore about sending Qais out to take the guy's pulse.

”Thanks.”

”Does that mean something to you?”

”Yes. I'm not sure what, but yes it does.”

He could hear Zaynab speaking in the background. ”Mom says to stay where you are,” Rim translated. ”Which, hang on...”

She started speaking to her mother in the patented Mansour language mix, and he waited patiently for her to stop. His patience ended when he recognized one particular word that made him scowl. ”Rim!”

”What?”

”I know what slampa means, and if you're saying what I think you are...”

”Well, I'm sorry, it's just that you're hardly the first man Rawan has brought home, you know?”

”That's none of your business. Now, put your mom on.”

”Why? You can't talk to her.”

”I'm not going to.” He laid the phone against his neck and asked Rawan, ”Could you talk to Zaynab for me, please?”

”Sure.”

He tossed the phone to her and sat waiting while she talked. As far as he could tell, the conversation was strictly in Arabic now, but with the mile-a-minute speed she was upholding, it was impossible to tell for sure. There was no mistaking the tone, though. She was clearly distressed and pissed off about the things she heard. As the discussion proceeded, her voice rose to a higher pitch and she started making faces and gestures that were completely wasted on the woman at the other end. He would have found them amusing if he hadn't all but known that he was the reason for the disgust.

She pressed the off button and threw the phone on the bed. ”You can stay here as long as you need to.”

By the sound of it, she'd just as soon have him walk out the door this instant. He raised his eyebrows. ”Thank you. I'm sorry to inconvenience you.” Not sorry enough to reject her offer – he'd have to be crazy not to take her up on that one.

”You could have said that the mafia chase you.”

”I could have. It would have spoiled the moment a bit, though, don't you think?”

At first she scoffed at him, but then admittedly reluctantly, ”Yes. But instead, now I am in The Bourne Identity.”

”The born what?”

”A film.” She waved that away. ”Will you come to work tonight?”

”Probably best not.”

”So what will you do?”

There was one thing he _really_ wanted to do, and thanks to his previous attempts to make sense of his memories, he knew just how to do it. ”Can I borrow your computer?”

”You borrow it now,” she said, crossing her arms. ”I will sit with you. And no gangster stuff.”

That made him laugh. ”None. Scout's honor.”

* * *

By now, he knew how to find the right site and search for the man's name, but his hands were shaking so badly as he typed it in that he had to hit delete twice and still ended up having the site ask him, ”Did you mean Peter Petrelli?”

Well. At least the name existed. He clicked the link and found a newspaper headline at the top of the list of links: ”Suicide suspected in death of congressman Petrelli.”

He had to support his right hand with the left one as he clicked his way to the article, where his own face suddenly stared back at him. ”Jesus Christ.”

”That's you!”

”Yeah.” The article spoke of a newly elected congressman, Nathan Petrelli. Was that his name, Nathan? Shouldn't it feel more familiar? He tried mouthing it, but was soon distracted. According to the article, the congressman had died almost a week after the election, on November 11, from staph infection. The circumstances around his death were very unclear, however, and insistent rumors spoke of suicide. The paper reminded readers that similar rumors had been in place after the death of Petrelli's father, and mentioned that a younger brother had survived a suicide attempt only a few months ago.

”He didn't try to kill himself.”

”What?”

”Peter. He didn't...” The words were going blurry, and he tapped the side of the screen lightly. ”What's wrong with your computer?”

”Nothing is wrong with my computer.” She moved closer. ”Why?”

”I can't read, everything's jumbled.”

”Maybe you need glasses.”

He shifted to the side, letting her take his space. ”Could you read it, please?”

”Why does it say you're dead?”

”I don't know. Maybe if you keep reading, we'll find out.”

She glared at him, and as she leaned forward her shoulders showed her irritation. ”I do you a favor. If you are mean, I can stop right now.”

”I'm sorry. Please, go on reading.”

She did, in a monotonous voice and with some glaring errors in pronounciation, which made him wonder just how much she understood of what she was saying. For him, the facts were so riveting that no amount of bad reading could stop him from being submerged into what they told him.

Nathan Petrelli – he wasn't yet capable of equating this person with himself – had won the election for Congress in an unexpected landslide (why did that make him feel slightly guilty?) but had been diagnosed with staph infection early the next morning. The infection had proved resistent to antibiotics, and Petrelli had died a few days later. The family had been very tight-lipped about the illness, and speculation had arisen claiming that the death was in fact suicide. Certain sources even spoke of an assassination, though they were unclear on why such a thing would be covered up.

It was a family with money, with several members working in highly acclaimed law firms, yet with a somewhat tarnished reputation. There had been rumours of mob connections concerning Petrelli the Elder. So this thing with Linderman he remembered was probably right on the spot. As disturbing as that was on a personal basis, at least it meant his scattered memories were working correctly when they worked at all.

Nathan Petrelli had worked as an assistant DA (assistant duh, Rawan called it, causing some confusion) and also served as a Navy pilot abroad. He had a wife called Heidi and two sons called Simon and Montgomery...

”Hang on,” he interrupted. ”What were their names?”

”Simon and Montgomery,” she repeated.

”Son of a bitch. No wonder I couldn't find him! He's two people!”

”What?”

”I remembered the names, Simon Montgomery. I assumed they were the names of one person. First name and surname. But they're my _kids._ I must've just mashed them up in my head.”

”This is really you,” she said slowly, staring at him with a disbelief bordering on horror.

”Looks like it.”

”_How_ ? How is it you? Okay, you're a lawyer. Fine. We have had lawyers before on the restaurant. But this...” She tapped on the screen and the wide-smiling image of him. ”He's like something from a movie.”

”Yeah,” he said, because he could see where she was coming from. The tale spun in that article was aeons away from his everyday life – and yet he didn't doubt its truthfulness for one second. ”I am that guy, though. It's not just the picture, or the details, it's... this is who I would _be_. This is the sort of man I am, and I have absolutely no idea how to be that man.”

She gave him a melancholy smile. ”It's not as easy as to clean tables, is it?”

”God, no. It's weird. I spent forty years being this man, and five weeks being Kalle Mohammad, but I'm good at being Kalle Mohammad. I can _ace_ being Kalle Mohammad.”

”Okay, okay, skrytmåns, don't get too proud.” She laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. After a beat, he started laughing too, and he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.

”Do you want to call him?” she asked.

He thought of the name, Peter Petrelli, and the glimpses he'd seen of a young man with hair falling into his face. Were they the same person? He suspected – hoped – that they were. In either case, he couldn't possibly be in danger from his own brother.

But why did his family think he was dead? No, scrap that, why did they _pretend_ he was dead? The scheme to have him seemingly die of staph infection sounded very elaborate, certainly elaborate enough that his dear ones had to be in on it. What earthly reason could they have to make up something like that? Was it really a plan to get him into safety – from the mob or God knows who else – and in that case, why would they go back on it now by looking for him? Those posters weren't exactly discreet, even if they were an ocean away from where he'd won that election. And while he was on that subject, there was something decidedly fishy about winning an election one day and running away the next. Had he been kidnapped? Or maybe there was something the matter with the election itself. It could also have to do with Linderman's death, he supposed, in which case he'd most likely be better off if he stayed in hiding.

How the hell were you supposed to come out of hiding when you were dead, anyway?

”I want to,” he said, ”but I won't. Not yet. I'll let Qais sniff out Rim's invisible man first, see if everything's as it should be.”

”Sniff out?”

”Make sure he's okay.”

His explanation completely failed to clear up Rawan's puzzled expression. ”Why could Qais know this?”

Damn. Not the best thing to let slip. ”He's good with people.” Quickly changing the subject before she could question his sanity on this one, he added, ”Anyway, I'll be out of your hair soon.”

She bit her lip, looking a bit embarrassed. ”Yes. I'm sorry I was so... This is a small place. I like to live alone. And then it was the mafia.”

”Yeah, well, if it's any consolation to you, I don't think that these guys are mobsters – mafia.”

Her tentative smile suddenly looked brighter than it should, and he threw a glance back at the screen. Once again, the letters were clear and easy to read. ”Huh. Seems like my eyes are adjusting.”

She gave him a quick kiss and stood up. ”I think you need glasses anyway. I must go to work now. Don't leave before I come back. You have no key.”

”Okay, thanks,” he said, his gaze already drawn back to the screen. Hitting the back screen, he tried another link. ”Do you mind if I stay on the computer for a while?”

”Send no email.”

”I wouldn't know how.”

* * *

**Interlude 5: Peter**

Peter had slipped into invisibility the moment he spotted number 29. The list of tenants had a Mansour on the third floor, just like the Eniro website had listed, and he walked up the stairs with utmost caution, making as little noise as possible.

It only took ten minutes before the door opened, and he tensed, hoping to see Nathan. Instead, it was a Middle Eastern-looking man in his fifties, cautiously making his way down the stairs with the aid of a walking stick. Every instinct Peter had told him to give a hand to the poor guy, but he reigned himself in. He couldn't very well make himself visible to the man, and help from someone invisible was more likely to induce a heart attack than anything else. He sat down against the wall and stifled a sigh.

The next one to step out of the apartment was more promising: a teenage girl who finished putting on her scarf and hitching down her skirt when she was already on the landing. A voice called from inside, and he perked up. Though the words were incomprehensible, the accent and pitch were very similar to those he had heard on the phone.

The girl called something back, and he punched the air. That was most definitely the voice he had heard. He scrambled to his feet, but regretted this rash act immediately as the girl twirled around and threw wild glances up and down the stairs. Talk about jittery. In a way, it was a good sign, since it implied she had something to hide, but it also meant he had to be a lot more quiet.

He followed her outside, grateful that there was no snow where his footprints might show up. She looked behind herself a couple of times, but seemed to relax once she was on the bus, clearly thinking that she'd lost him.

They stepped off in central town and walked a few blocks to an imposing 19th century building... which was surrounded by teenagers. Right. Well, it seemed the past half hour had been a collossal waste of time, unless he was willing to entertain the theory that Nathan was going to high school. Still, it couldn't hurt to ask around. He waited until the bell sounded, and then slipped back into visibility in the shade of some trees.

There were signs around the school, but naturally enough, none of them were in English. He couldn't use Molly's power to locate the principal's office either, since he'd never met the principal or seen his office, and thus only had a vague idea what he was looking for. In the end, he had to do it the normal way and ask for directions – twice, even. The place was full of similar-looking corridors, so he could have taken a wrong turn the first time, but he rather suspected that the kid he'd asked wasn't too sure what a principal was.

When he did find the office, he was let in remarkably quickly and had to search for something to say. In the end, he settled for a much abbreviated version of the truth.

The principal looked closely at the poster – he seemed puzzled by the situation. ”No, I can't say I've seen him. But of course you may put the poster up. We have a notice board downstairs. Did he disappear around here?”

”We have reason to think so, yes. There's particularly one student of yours who I think might have met him. Her name's Mansour – I'm afraid I missed the first name. Yea tall, black hair in a ponytail?”

”Ah yes. Do you want me to call her out of the classroom?”

”No.” Definitely not, if Nathan was trying to hide. ”I was just wondering if you could tell me anything about her. Her family, for instance, or her friends.”

The helpful smile immediately slipped away from the principal's face, and he gave Peter a stone cold stare that said 'Perv' as clear as words. ”I'm afraid I can't reveal information about my students.”

”Oh. No, obviously not, that's not what I meant.”

It was exactly what he'd meant, but why had he phrased himself in such a rotten way? Now he'd never get any information from this guy, and chances were that it'd be useless even if he called Noah to come in and handle it in that imposive, effective way of his. Damn it, he was usually _much_ better than this at handling people. What had come over him? Most of his own teachers back in the day had been eager to believe every word from his mouth whether it was true or not, and the few sceptics could usually be distracted when he burst into tears and claimed he was being bullied. Okay, so on occasion he had actually been bullied, but that was beside the point.

Somehow he doubted he could make things all right in this case by crying and saying that people were out to get him. Even if people _were_ out to get him; Sylar might be dead, but according to Noah the Company was anything but.

Oh yeah. That would work out great. I'm sorry, sir, but I have special abilities, and I believe that my brother, who can fly, is hiding from people who want to put him in a lab.

He pushed his chair back and held out his hand. ”Anyway. Thank you for your time, sir. I can see that you're busy. I hope you'll let me know if anyone sees my brother.”

”Oh, absolutely,” the principal said, and he sounded genuine, despite Peter's gaffe about the Mansour girl. He could only hope that it actually _was_ genuine and not a way to get rid of him.

The notice board turned out to have five copies of the same poster on what he concluded was a musical event, so he felt perfectly justified tearing two of them down to make room for some pictures of Nathan. He kept shielding the posters with his body as he put them up, even though the corridors were empty. It was silly, really, the reason he put them up was so that people would see them, but at the same time he didn't want the Mansour girl warning Nathan.

He could follow her around invisibly and see what happened when she spotted a poster – but she must have seen one before, or she wouldn't have made the phone call in the first place. This was ridiculous. The way he figured, his best bet of getting something done was to use Molly's power to keep track of her, and meanwhile get back to the apartment where she lived and see if he could find any traces there. A thought struck him, and he looked around. Across the corridor there was a whiteboard with pens in three different colours attached, and he fetched the black one, writing under the phone number on the poster: ”Please help me find my brother!” He hoped if nothing else, it would relax the girl enough that she wouldn't make things harder for him.

Going back to the apartment complex felt like failure, but he told himself that he was just exploring different sides of the case.

The street was empty when Peter returned, but he still went back into invisibility before going up the stairs. He listened at the door. There was no sound from the inside, which could mean that no one was home – or that they were consciously trying to stay quiet.

He tryingly rang the door bell. It would be kind of awkward if someone did show up to open the door, but the apartment remained silent.

Obviously he could break down the door. He'd tried the blonde's power, and she was really incredibly strong. But that strength would only be useful for the ten minutes it might take someone to call the police, which definitely wasn't what he wanted right now.

Could he do it telekinetically? He'd never tried anything as specific as picking a lock before, but it was worth a try. Putting one hand on each lock, he tried to concentrate on making them move. The effort made his head hurt and buzz like it was full of bees, and after about a minute he noticed that his hands were starting to flicker in and out. There was just no way he could concentrate on both things at once, and so he let himself become visible again. Maybe just one lock at a time? The top one seemed easier, he could start with that one. He put both hands on that one lock and focused hard, feeling the bolt slide back slowly, slowly...

”Vafaen gör du?”

The cranky voice made him jump. He had been so caught up in what he was doing he hadn't heard any footsteps, but now a short, white-haired man was glaring at him from two steps up the stairs.

He immediately took his hand down and spread them to the sides to show good will. ”Sorry, I was just waiting for a friend.”

”Du kan bara ge dig av! Jävla zigenare, komma hit och sno!”

The words were incomprehensible, but the angry expression and the hand pointing violently down the stairs were anything but. Peter hurried to retreat, his hands still spread. ”Sorry. So sorry.” As soon as he was out of sight, he went invisible, and watched from the corner as the old man went outside, still huffing in anger.

This was the second time in less than an hour that someone had assumed he had some nefarious purpose. He sat down on a bench outside – it was too cold to be comfortable, but he was at a point where he didn't care – and called Noah.

”Do you think you could go to the school and ask around?” he asked after finishing his recount of the day's misfortunes.

”If this were Odessa or New York, absolutely. Even Tokyo, anywhere I spoke the language. But they've already had one English speaker asking questions today, they're going to be pretty cautious.”

”Yeah. I guess you're right.”

”I don't suppose you could just talk to the girl?”

”No. I know it's the simplest solution, but the way she sounded before she hung up on me... She was panicking. I don't know who she thinks I am or what if anything Nathan has told her, but she's not going to be very eager to talk to me.”

”Okay, it's your call.”

”If you could just trail her – could you trail her? See what she does?”

”Peter, these days the kids have something called cell phones. If she's gonna contact Nathan...”

”Yeah, I know. But it's better than nothing.”

”So what do you plan on doing now?”

”I don't know. Hang around. Wait for someone to come home. Once I know how many people live here, I think I'll be able to find any place they go.”

”Peter, it's 9AM. If they're not home, they'll be at school, work, daycare. If you want my advice, take some time off. Come back at four or five when they're likely to come home.”

”Yeah,” Peter said, his eyes fixed on the door. ”That's probably a good idea.”

”Are you gonna do it?”

A woman pushing a pram was coming out of one of the other entrances. She was heading in his direction, which meant that he couldn't turn visible without her noticing, and he probably shouldn't continue the conversation in his current state either.

”I have to go.”

”Peter!”

He hung up, and thought about what to do next. He needed to pee. And quite possibly, he should go buy some lunch while he had the chance.

All the years he'd spent by sickbeds had given him a great deal of patience. In the final stages, there were often long hours were nothing more was requested than his presence and readiness to step in if and when something happened. He went over to a nearby store and bought some readymade sandwiches, stuffing them into his backpack with the posters, and then returned to the staircase at number 29 where he took a seat, invisible, in the corner outside the Mansour door.

Noah was almost right. It was 3.45, so soon after his next bathroom break that he almost missed it, before the first person returned. At first glance, he thought it was the girl, but it only took him a second to correct the assumption. This woman was older and – he couldn't help noticing – better looking. She walked with heavy steps and seemed tired; the kind of tired he had seen a lot back when he still did his hospital internship. It made him feel a strange sort of kinship with her, and he smiled a little as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. Once she was out of sight, he contemplated his next move for a minute and then took a deep breath, making himself visible as he rang the doorbell.

She opened the door, still wearing her jacket though it was open and with the mittens stuffed in the pocket. ”Ja, hey?”

He dug a flyer from his backpack and held it out. ”I wondered if you've seen my brother.”

Even before her gaze touched the paper, he could see her stiffen. Oh yeah, she had seen Nathan all right. ”Your... brother?”

”Yeah.” He studied her face closely as she looked at the picture of Nathan, then at him, and then back to the picture. ”He disappeared a bit over a month ago. I've been worried sick. Still am.”

Her expression was soft, and she looked ready to say something. He licked his lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

”He doesn't...”

”What?” he asked when her voice trailed off.

She took a deep breath and gave him a slightly shaky smile. ”I'm sorry, could you come back later? Maybe seven. Seven would be good.”

”You've seen him, haven't you?”

”Please. I can't do this right now.” She held up seven fingers. ”Okay?”

”Okay,” he agreed. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd leave even for a second now that he knew that he was onto something, but there was no reason why she had to find that out. Whatever happened between then and seven, he'd be there for it.

Because he suspected that she might be watching through the peephole, he actually walked down the first flight of stairs before doubling back. You'd think that having a deadline would mean waiting was less of a chore, but it turned out to be the other way around. Every minute seemed to drag on for eternity, and Peter had absolutely no idea how to make it to seven.

Right after six, he could hear the girl's voice from downstairs. She sounded alarmed, and there was a male voice replying in tones that alternated from soothing to questioning, from what he could tell. Both voices made their way up the stairs, and slowed slightly as they drew nearer.

He saw the young man's face first, looking right at him with a puzzled expression. Could he see him? It wasn't possible, was it? Peter held his gaze, barely daring to move or breathe, even though he suddenly knew with perfect clarity that everything would be all right, that these two were good people and that he could trust them.

”Qais?” the girl asked.

The young man took the last few steps, still looking straight at him. ”Jag tror det är okay.”

She looked around wildly. ”Han är väl inte här?”

He nodded and said, in quite a loud voice: ”Peter Petrelli!” The way he pronounced Peter, it had the same kind of E as Petrelli. ”I think we need to talk.”

He stood up, causing both of them to flinch a little, and turned visible, which made them jump, and to his surprise the man even cried out. So he _hadn't_ seen him after all.

”So do I.”


	11. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 11**

**Chapter 11**

After all that waiting and pacing through Rawan's tiny apartment, the phone signal was a relief, but also the most frightening thing since... well, it wasn't like he had all that many frightening things to choose from. He picked it up, swallowing hard. ”Hello?”

”Hi, it's me,” said Qais, sounding noticeably cheerful. ”We're on the way over with your brother. Do you want to talk to him?”

”Yes,” he answered before Qais had even finished speaking. ”Yes, yes, I... yes.”

”Nathan?”

Oh dear sweet mother of God, he knew that voice. ”Peter?”

A pause, then, ”Yeah. I thought you didn't remember me.”

”Rim told me your name. I looked it up on Goggle.” He was babbling, but there was no way to get out the words he actually needed to say. Half of it wasn't words anyway, and he ached for them all to just get there already.

”It's called Google.”

”Google. Right. I looked myself up too.”

”Self-googling is a form of masturbation,” Peter said, and despite the dry words there was a softness to his voice.

”Is it now? The things you learn.” He drew a shaky breath. ”Peter?”

”Yeah?”

”There wasn't a picture of you. I didn't look very hard, my eyes have been acting up all day, but I couldn't find one. Tell me, do you have these ridiculous long bangs that fall into your face?”

”Yes. You always hated them.”

”They look stupid, you know. Your eyes, they're light brown?”

”Yeah.”

”And your mouth, does it...”

”Yes, it does. You do remember!”

”I've seen your face, quite a bit. Heidi's too, sometimes. Yours is clearer. I can't see the boys. I know I have them, I get flashes of children, but I can't see their faces.”

Peter's voice was husky when at long last he replied to that: ”I've got a photo in my wallet.”

”Thank you.” He couldn't keep the tears away from his eyes anymore, and his throat hurt, but silence wasn't an option. He held the phone tight to his ear, speaking of nothing and everything, asking questions that helped him piece the puzzle together. Not the one from the articles, about elections and law firms and public figures. The real puzzle.

He was still on the phone when the doorbell rang, and he went to open, taking the phone off his ear only when he could see the people standing on the other side.

Seeing that face right in front of him, his first thought was how very realistic it was, better, more alive than ever in his memories. Then the actual reality of it all kicked in, and he pulled Peter close, hugging him, running his fingers through that overlong hair.

”Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Peter's hold on him was just as tight. ”It's really you.”

He had to laugh. ”Tell me about it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely saw the Mansour kids shutting the door behind them, but that was of absolutely no importance right now. He lifted his hand up to Peter's face, touching it tentatively. Perhaps it was their proximity, or just having his brother around again, but once again, he got the memory of sharp pain in his hand, so strong that he pulled away, wincing.

”You bit me!”

Peter blinked. His expression changed, first to sheer joy, then to joy mixed with irritation. ”What else could I do? You wouldn't let go!”

”You were about to explode, Pete. You think I was just gonna ditch you there? In the middle of the ocean?” His voice was getting increasingly louder, and Peter replied in kind.

”I can survive an explosion, you can't!”

”Apparently I can!”

”You couldn't know that!”

”I had a pretty good hunch! Nothing _touches_ me at that speed.”

Peter blinked. ”That was Noah's theory too.”

”Who's Noah?”

”Oh. Right. He's Claire's dad – Adoptive dad, I mean. He came here with me.”

”Who's Claire?” he asked, annoyed to have the conversation derailed to a point at which he was relegated to asking random questions about his own life.

Peter looked so mortified that for a moment he wondered if he'd wounded him horribly somehow – and then he clued in. Because he'd had that flash of memory, Peter had clearly thought that he was cured, all at once, like pulling the plug in a bathtub.

”She's your daughter.”

Daughter? That wasn't possible. His only memories were of sons, boys. Sometimes one, sometimes two, but always boys. Was it really possible for a child to be entirely wiped out from his memory? Anyway, the _article_ had only mentioned sons. Surely if he'd had a daughter, she would have been mentioned? The words about ”adopted” sank in. He'd given a child up for adoption? According to every source he'd seen, he was loaded. Why would he need to do that?

”I don't have a daughter,” he said, and it sounded a lot more like a question than he wanted it to.

Peter nodded slowly and opened his jacket. ”You do, actually. Out of wedlock.”

There was a snort from Qais, and for the first time he became aware that the Mansours were still listening. ”Don't you even start,” he warned Qais. His gaze involuntarily slid over to Aisha. It struck him that perhaps it was in poor taste to bring the woman he had tried to seduce to the home of the woman he'd actually slept with. Not to mention all this talk about children out of wedlock.

Peter took a picture from his wallet and handed it over to him. He stared at it, trying to see something familiar in the vivacious young face. Perhaps something in the smile, and around the eyes, but that was it. He should feel something – scrap that, he should feel a whole lot of something – but he didn't. Just an immense sadness.

”She's beautiful,” he said.

”She's my age,” Rim said, leaning over his shoulder.

He handed over the picture to her, partly relieved to see it go, so it could no longer make demands he couldn't live up to, but also a bit scared. Would he lose that face again, now that it was out of his sight?

Peter handed the rest of the photos over in silence. An aging family photo showing himself at twenty-something along with Peter as a boy and an older couple – his parents? His mother's face looked familiar (and it certainly fit the voice he had sometimes heard in his memories), while his father's only evoked the memory of a tall back clad in a grey suit.

Next came the boys, playing together on the lawn, with Heidi laughing behind them. The sight of her laughter startled him. Her face was lighter, wider, and those blue eyes nothing like Aisha's big dark ones, but the laughter still gave the two of them a similarity that made him extra reluctant to finally hand the photo over.

Maybe his reluctance in itself made Qais suspicious; in any case, when the photo reached him he looked at it for a while and then flipped it over, asking, ”Can I start about _this_?”

”I'd really rather you didn't.”

Qais looked at him long and hard, and then simply nodded. ”Okay.”

”That's it?” he asked dubiously. ”Okay?”

”Yes. Okay. No problem.”

”What's going on?” Peter asked.

”Nothing.”

”Don't lie to me, Nathan.”

Something about that tone made his head whip around, and he looked at his kid brother with extra suspicion, then over to Qais, and then back again. He could be imagining things. He really hoped he was imagining things, considering the alternative. ”Peter, what exactly is it you do?”

”What do you mean?”

”I saw you explode, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?”

”He went invisible before,” Rim pointed out, which caused a startled outcry from her sister.

His eyes were still fixed on Peter's face. ”Invisible. Huh. What else?”

Peter shrugged. ”You might say I do everything else. I mimic other people's powers.”

”Terrific.” Somehow he got the feeling that even though Peter was his brother, he'd be just as annoying as Qais about the trust issue.

His head was starting to swim, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his thoughts.

”Are you okay?” Peter asked.

”I'm fine.”

”No you're not.” Both Qais and Peter spoke at once, which only confirmed his suspicions.

”As if one of you weren't enough,” he muttered.

Peter put one hand on his shoulder and lifted his chin with the other one. ”You said your eyes had been acting up.”

”They're fine now.”

”Do they trouble you often?”

He shook his head. ”Just today.”

”He gets dizzy,” Rim said. ”I've seen him.”

”A couple of dizzy spells,” he snapped, brushing Peter's hand off his face. ”It doesn't mean anything.”

”It could mean any number of things.” Peter stubbornly tried to hold his face still to look into his eyes. ”Have you seen a doctor at all, about the amnesia?”

”Once. Will you cut it out?”

”No. What did he say?”

”She said it could be psychological or physical and she just didn't know.”

”She didn't do a CT scan?”

”In case you haven't noticed, Peter, I'm an illegal alien, I've got a gripe with the mob, and I can fly. That kind of limits my choice of doctors.”

”Where's your coat?”

”What?”

”You're going to need your coat, it's freezing outside.”

”Pete, didn't you hear a word I said?”

”Yeah, and I don't care. You could have brain damage.”

”What, are you a doctor or something?”

”Nurse, actually.”

A _nurse_? That fit just a little bit too well with all the mother hen action going on. Everything he said still stood, not to mention that he had promised not to leave until Rawan came home, but there was nothing in Peter's face that suggested he was open to arguments.

Finally, he just sighed and picked up his shoes, unlacing them. ”Fine. Aisha, Qais, if anyone asks, you guys are our cousins. Rim, you stay here.”

”What? Why?”

”I don't have a key, so someone's got to stay. Peter's a nurse, Aisha's... whatever, she's got experience with memory loss, and Qais can tell me if there's anything fishy going on.” Rim made a wry face, and he cut her off. ”Don't argue. Just do it. _Please_.”

Qais made a soothing comment to his sister, and he actually understood enough of it to give a half-smile. Probably just as well that Peter didn't seem to speak any Swedish. From what he could tell, the gist of the sentiment was that by the time Rawan got home and Rim could join them at the hospital, they wouldn't even have reached the front of the emergency line.


	12. What Country, Friends, Is This? Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 12**

**Chapter 12**

Qais' assessment of the line was pretty spot on, he had to admit. The emergency room was full of people, and the line never seemed to cease. For the first few hours, they all waited patiently, but as evening turned into night, Peter became restless, trying to convince the staff that their case was urgent, but with very little luck.

”I can't get through to them,” Peter said as he took a pause in his nagging to rejoin them for a moment. ”Is there anywhere else we could go?”

”Not at this hour,” Qais said, interrupting his game of tic-tac-toe with Aisha. ”Vårdcentralen will be closed.”

”And it's not like they'd do anything,” Aisha said. ”Just give us a remiss to a specialist, and _that_ could take months. If you really think it's serious, this is our best option.”

”Maybe it would help if you seemed remotely eager to get this done.”

She rolled her eyes and drew another circle.

”It's been five weeks,” he pointed out. ”I'm not gonna die waiting here.” Of course, dying of boredom might be a factor. Since tic-tac-toe was a game for two, it seemed Peter was his best chance, and so he grabbed his brother's shoulders, pulling him to a seated position. ”Sit down and tell me about my kids.”

The request was actually enough to make Peter remain still for a while. He told anecdotes about the boys – sweet ones, funny ones, even a few tragic and painful ones. Most of them evoked no memories, but just hearing them were a comfort.

”...There were slices of cucumber and lemon on the salmon, and I guess they looked a bit like scales, because Simon asked, 'May I have some more dragon, please?'”

He laughed. ”That's cute.”

”He was so embarrassed when we told him it was fish. Red as a traffic light. Nobody blushes like Simon. He must have abnormal blood supply to his head or something.”

”Well, you're the nurse, you should know. Maybe that's what he does. As his special thing.” He put two fingers up to each temple to illustrate his point. ”It runs in families, yeah?”

”Yeah.”

He watched Aisha and Qais, chatting away in that bilingual mix he never quite got the hang of. As far as he knew, Qais was the only one with any form of paranormal ability. But then, lie detecting wasn't like flying. Maybe there was something else in the others, something so low-key he hadn't even noticed. Or maybe Qais had that first mutation that would start the chain in his family. ”Does anyone else in our family have it?”

”Claire does.”

”Tell me about Claire.”

Peter smiled a little and looked off into the distance.

”Any time you're ready,” he prodded after a while.

”I don't know much. I mean, I know that she's a sweet kid. Incredibly brave. Special. I hope you get to meet her some time.”

”Why wouldn't I?”

Peter threw a quick, discreet glance around the room, saying as clearly as words that this was one of those things not discussed in public. ”She kind of needs her privacy right now. A bit like you.”

He stiffened. Was his daughter in hiding? Because of the Linderman thing? But no – Peter had said nothing about any danger to Heidi or the boys, and if the mob was the problem, their position had to be a lot more fragile than hers. What then? Did it have to do with what she could do? He could certainly see why careless use of special abilities might cause the wrong kind of people to ask the wrong kind of questions, until your only options were hiding or being caged up somewhere.

”She's okay, isn't she?” he asked in a low voice.

”She's fine,” Peter replied with a reassuring smile. ”She's with her family – her other family.” His eyes widened. ”Damn it, I need to call Noah.”

”Her dad?”

”Yeah. He's... I gotta call him. Hang in there, okay?”

”I promise,” he said dryly, watching his brother run off to a remote corner to use his cell phone in peace. Well. It didn't take him long to start running around again.

* * *

The period that followed was even more exceedingly dull than the one past. Peter kept pacing the floor, barely stopping for a word. Aisha fell asleep. Qais did his best to be entertaining, but his offered games were really a bit too juvenile.

”How about I Spy?”

”I Spy?”

”You say, I spy something that starts with an M, or something. And I guess.”

He looked towards the door, where two paramedics were bringing in another kid who could barely stand. ”I spy something that starts with a D.”

”Doctor?”

”Drunken-ass teenager. Is that the third case since we got here?”

”Probably a lot more,” Qais said with a shrug. ”It's Lucia.”

”I thought that was yesterday.”

”The wake was yesterday. Now they're just finishing the leftover alcohol.”

”Charming.” He watched the entrance, and saw a man walk through the door with purposeful strides. There was something about that man – the suit, the hair, the glasses... He sat up straight, pulse racing. ”We have to leave.”

”Now!? Are you kidding me? We've been here for hours!”

”Shh!” he warned, shaking Aisha awake.

”Hmm?” she asked, pushing the hair out of her face, where red marks spoke of its former presence. ”Is it our turn?”

”No.” He sat down on his heels, speaking in a low voice. ”I need you to be very quiet. There's a man in here who's very dangerous – ”

”What man?” Qais asked, looking around the room.

”Qais!” he hissed.

Qais sat down and whispered, ”What man?”

”By the door. Now, it's me he wants, so if you leave first, I doubt he'll pay much attention to you. Oh, for crying out loud, will you stop doing that!” Because Qais had just craned his neck to get a better look.

”No, he's not,” Qais said with absolute certainty.

The memory was more vivid than any so far – a wire fence on one side, and on the other that man, stone-faced, holding him at gunpoint. He shuddered involuntarily. If only the kids would stop arguing and get the hell out of there, he'd have a better chance of going unnoticed. ”Trust me, he is.”

”No, he's really not.” Qais repeated. A smile teased at the corners of his mouth.

”You can determine that from the other side of the room?” he snapped.

”Yes. And look!”

Against his will, he looked, seeing Peter with evident relief rush up to the man. His first instinct was to rush after, pull his brother away, but he held himself back. ”What the hell's going on?”

”Peter's like me now, right?” Qais asked. ”You can definitely trust this guy.”

”That's not what I remember.”

”Maybe your memory's playing tricks on you.”

”Is it, now?” He held his gaze steadily at the man next to his brother, as the two of them came closer to him.

”Hello, Nathan,” the man said, holding out his hand. ”I'm Noah.”

That admission threw him off his track for a moment, and he shook the offered hand. ”Noah? Claire's father?”

”That's right.”

”I seem to recall... us being on rather poor terms. Perhaps I'm mistaken.”

Noah's face was dispassionate, but he seemed to search for words for a moment before replying, ”No, I wouldn't say that you are.”

Qais gasped, barely audible, and Peter – Peter cringed.

His eyes narrowed. Whatever was going on here, Peter clearly wasn't surprised.

”Things change, though,” Noah added.

”Qais?” he asked, his eyes still firmly fixed on Noah's face.

”What?”

”Do things change?”

After a pause, Qais replied cautiously, ”Yes. They do.”

”Peter?”

”Yeah?” Peter said, sounding a bit guilty.

”Do you vouch for this guy?”

Peter glanced over at Noah, and eventually smiled a little. ”I do, yes.”

”All right, then. Sorry,” he told Noah. ”I had to make sure.”

”No problem, I understand. Though I must say I'm surprised you remember me at all.”

”I didn't lose all of my memories. They sort of show up in flashes.”

”Really?” Noah sounded surprisingly thoughtful. ”That's interesting.”

”How so?” he asked, catching on to the quality in the other man's voice.

”When Peter told me of your condition, I assumed... well, I formed a theory. I think I may have been wrong.” Looking over towards the reception desk, he asked, ”I take it you haven't seen a doctor yet. Let me see if I can do something about that.”

He watched Noah go to talk to the receptionist, and raised an eyebrow. ”What are the odds of him managing to talk her into letting us skip the line, when none of us could?”

”Knowing him,” Peter replied, ”probably really good.”

* * *

Whatever Noah had said, it clearly worked. They were shunted through to an examination room, where he had to tell a careful mix of truth and lies to a doctor who hummed a lot before giving him the same answers Dr. Kaya had done a month ago. Since this was supposed to be his first visit, he pretended to be surprised and alarmed.

What followed was a circus of tests, scans, further talks with the sympathetic doctor, who spoke in a much-too-kind voice filled with reassurance and a tinge of pity. Finally, in the early morning, he was given a number of drug prescriptions, a hospital bed, and some peace and quiet.

Peter sat by his bedside, watching him with a mournful expression that became very tiresome very soon.

”I'm not dead or dying, Pete, so cut out the puppy dog eyes, okay?”

”Strokes, Nathan,” Peter said quietly.

”Mini strokes. _Tiny_ strokes. Listen, I'm not wild about the thought of someone sticking a probe in my head via my crotch – or inguen or whatever the word is – but they clearly know what they're doing. They tell me I have a normal life expectancy, I believe them. I might even get most of my memories back. I call it a good deal.”

Peter bit his lip.

He sighed and took his brother's hand, squeezing it in what he hoped was a comforting manner. ”It could have been so much worse.”

”You think I don't know that?” Peter asked vehemently. ”I thought you were _dead_.”

True enough – oh God, what a mess. He asked, ”That story about the staph infection...”

”We had to say something. I couldn't very well tell people that I'd exploded in the sky with you, and when I woke up you were gone.”

He had to laugh at that. ”Yeah, I can imagine. Does... Does Heidi know I'm alive?”

Peter looked away. ”No.”

”You have to tell her.”

”I know. I just have to figure out what to say.”

”You tell the truth. All of it.”

That clearly startled Peter. ”Are you sure?”

”I'm positive. I may not remember much about my wife, but I remember loving her. I do love her, don't I?”

”You do,” Peter said with a very soft smile.

”Then you tell her the truth, and you tell the boys as much of the truth as you think they can handle. If I'm to have any chance of being their father again, and her husband, I can't start off with lies.”

”It's gonna be hard. Getting your life back.”

That gave him pause. Was that what he was after, getting his life back? A month ago he would have said ”yes” without a second thought, but now he wasn't so sure. His life was incredibly alien to him; it felt entirely theoretical compared to the real relationships surrrounding him. The fact that he was supposed to be dead only made things even more complicated. On the other hand, he wasn't ready to throw out the past for a room in someone else's apartment and a shitty low-wage job either.

”Where are the others?” he asked.

”Outside. Mr. and Mrs. Mansour just arrived.”

”That's good.” He felt pathetically safe just knowing that Adil and Zaynab were around.

”Do you want to see them?”

”No, it's all right.” Still holding Peter's hand, he indulged in the scraps of memory he had of the two of them, trying to will his mind to cooperate with him to reveal more. It was hard to say which option was less appealing – leaving with Peter to a world he knew next to nothing about, or Peter leaving without him. He hardened his grip.

”The kid – Rim – she came in a while ago with some woman.”

”Rawan,” he assumed.

”Yeah.” Peter paused. ”Do you want to see her?”

Peter's tone was so meaningful that he winced. Just a bit too perceptive there. Rawan made things even more complicated – yes, it had been a one night stand, they both knew it, but beyond that she was a _friend_, and that made things all kinds of awkward concerning Heidi.

”Not right now, okay?”

”Okay.”

They were both silent for a while, and then he asked, ”Peter? Could you call my family, please? Ask them to come over here.”

”Now?” Peter asked, starting to slip his hand away, but he grabbed it, hard.

”Soon. Very soon.”

”Yeah. I will.”

He nodded slowly, relaxing his grip a little.

”Nathan,” Peter said quietly. ”Whatever happens, whatever you do, you're still my brother. Still their friend. None of that changes.”

He looked towards the window to the corridor. The glass was covered by a white film, but he could see shadows move behind it, even guess the names of those shadows, the difference in bulk and height between parent and child, friend and stranger.

”Everything changes,” Nathan whispered.

But Peter's hand remained in his.


End file.
